


High Stakes

by shakti108



Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: 1980s, First Time, Long Hair, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2020-12-09 03:27:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20988062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakti108/pseuds/shakti108
Summary: So this one is actually new :) There's an interview w/Conan O'Brien from the early 2000s where Conan makes fun of Jon and Richie's '80s hair. Richie starts to say something about him and Jon having hair contests, but Conan cuts him off.  This is what I think happened ...





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> So this one is actually new :) There's an interview w/Conan O'Brien from the early 2000s where Conan makes fun of Jon and Richie's '80s hair. Richie starts to say something about him and Jon having hair contests, but Conan cuts him off. This is what I think happened ...

**1987**

"Rich, what the hell is this?"

Jon looked across the dressing room to see Alec snagging a tall black canister from the vanity where Richie had his feet propped.

Richie glanced up from his _Guitar World._ "Vavoom."

"_Vavoom?_" Alec repeated around his unlit cigarette.

Richie flipped a page. "It's hairspray."

Alec held the can out. "It's the size of a fucking fire extinguisher."

Jon snorted, mentally scrambling for some kind of Michael Jackson hair-on-fire joke. Then it hit him -- 

"Hey, wait a minute." He pushed to his feet. "Is that new?"

Richie eyed him briefly. "Maybe."

_The hell?_

"That's against the rules," Jon said on impulse, moving to grab the can from Al -- who skittered away, cradling it protectively.

"What rules?" Richie challenged.

And OK, maybe there hadn't been a rule, exactly. Jon honestly couldn't remember, considering how much liquor he'd downed prior to their agreement. But he _always_ laid down rules before making a bet. So he had to assume ...

He crossed his arms. "We made rules."

Richie rolled his eyes. "There was no ban on new hair products."

Jon shrugged. "Don't care. I didn't buy any new grease, so you can't use that." He flapped a hand toward Alec.

"It's called Vavoom," Al scolded, before squinting to read the fine print. "It's formulated for superior hold and superior shine. Feel the volume. Feel the body. _Feel_ the energy."

He looked at Richie. "Well, hot damn."

Richie smiled. "It's a freezing mist," he explained, in a tone far too smug for a man talking about hairspray. "You put it on when your hair's still wet -- like, you bend over and spray at the roots."

Alec snickered. "Bend over, huh?"

Richie ignored him. "So while your hair is drying, it's getting bigger and bigger." He used his hands to illustrate the concept. "And then when it's dry, you tease it out and spray it some more. You get this, like, immense, impenetrable fortress of hair."

He looked over and smiled in that special way -- the way that irritated Jon so much it made his stomach flip-flop.

"It's a revolutionary new product," Richie continued, still smiling. "I saw a commercial the other day."

_Oh, hell no._

"No way." Jon shook his head. "That's cheating."

"OK," Alec broke in. "What are you two goin' on about?"

Richie tossed the magazine aside and folded his hands on his lap. "Jonny and I are engaged in a contest."

When he didn't elaborate, Alec made an _and?_ motion with his hand. 

Jon sighed. "We have a bet to see who can have the biggest hair at our gigs this week."

As he heard the words out loud, he realized how unbelievably stupid --

"Whose dumbass idea was that?" Al demanded with a cackle.

Jon tilted his head toward Richie. "Who do ya think?"

"How do you even judge something like that?" Alec asked, strolling over to replace the disputed hair product.

Jon felt Richie's eyes on him. They hadn't actually talked logistics yet.

"How hard can it be?" Richie questioned, sounding unsure.

Alec leaned against the vanity, and shot Jon an _Are you kidding me?_ look. "You've gotta measure it, you idiot."

"So?"

Al looked skyward. "Think about all the variables, Rich. Hair has height." He hovered his palm above his head. "But it also has girth." His hand traced an orbit around his head. "And what about the length?"

Jon and Richie stared, and Al shook his head in disapproval. "Are you just gonna measure the hair height, or the total volume? If length counts, Rich has an advantage."

Richie snorted at the double entendre, and Jon stood up a little taller. "Length doesn't count."

He immediately cringed at his ill-chosen words, as Richie dissolved into one of his hissy little giggles. "That's what he tells all the girls." 

Jon felt a warmth rising in his cheeks, so he deflected.

"You mean those throngs of girls _begging_ to get a piece of me, everywhere we go?" He busted out his best shit-eating grin. "Them?"

This time Richie rolled his eyes. "Yeah, OK, stud."

"Hey, hey," Alec intervened. "We're getting off-track. How are you gonna judge this? And _who's_ gonna judge?"

"Dave," Richie declared without hesitation.

Jon looked over sharply, his bullshit sensors instantly activated. It would be just like Richie to recruit Dave as a ringer, in exchange for some kind of kickback ... A daily supply of Cool Ranch Doritos would probably meet Dave's demands.

Jon narrowed his eyes. "Why him?"

Richie pushed out his bottom lip and shrugged. "He's good at math. He can calculate the" -- He snapped his fingers a couple times -- "the 'E equals MC squared' or whatever."

Alec screwed up his face. "Is that even math? Isn't that, like, the theory of evolution?"

"_No,_" Jon scoffed, though he wasn't one-hundred percent on that.

Al looked affronted for a moment, but then shrugged and fished a lighter from his pocket. "Well, it's the theory of fucking something, and it ain't hairdos."

"OK, forget that," Richie backpedaled. "Dave's still the best choice."

Jon wagged an index finger at him. "Unh-uh. Tico can do it."

Richie raised an eyebrow. "Teek will put his cigar out in your bangs."

Jon pondered that for a beat. "OK," he relented. "How about this? Dave can do it, but Teek has to supervise."

It seemed like a reasonable compromise.

"Hey." Alec fanned his arms out. "What about me?"

Jon sighed. _Christ help me._

"You can supervise Tico."

Alec nodded. "Deal. When does the insanity begin?"

"We hafta measure right before we go on," Richie replied, like he'd thoroughly considered that element. "Hair deflates onstage."

Jon couldn't argue with that.

He stepped to the back of Richie's chair, so they were both reflected in the mirror. "Fine," he agreed.

Mirror Richie just peered back at him, an odd little smile playing at his lips. And Jon felt suddenly, weirdly self-conscious.

He ran a hand through his hair. "What?"

Richie shrugged a shoulder. "Just lookin' forward to winning."

Jon kept messing with his hair, making it fall over his face. "Please. You're toast, man."

Richie clucked his tongue. "Are you trying to psyche me out? Fluffin' your hair like that?"

Jon chuckled, resting a hand on the back of the chair and leaning toward the mirror. "Yeah. This is my pregame."

Richie tipped his head back a bit, and Jon just barely felt the contact against him. "What did we say the prize was for day one?" Richie asked, holding his gaze in the mirror. "I can't remember."

Jon blinked. "Oh. Um ..."

Again, the details were fuzzy. Plus, he was a little preoccupied by Richie's gigantic head, just resting against him. It seemed like he shouldn't be lingering there, especially since they weren't drunk.

Jon kept his eyes on the mirror. "Guess I can't remember, either."

Richie huffed a soft laugh and Jon flinched at the sensation against his belly. 

"Maybe we didn't decide," Richie suggested.

Jon bobbed his head. "Could be. I do remember a lot of distractions around us."

Richie bit his lip, a little sparkle in his eyes. "Strip joints are a terrible venue for contest planning."

Jon glanced down at the top of Richie's head, at that soft-looking, temporarily product-free hair, and it occurred to him that _he_ could move. But it seemed rude, given their positions.

"Wow." Al's deadpan voice startled him. "You two really suck at betting."

Jon looked up to see a third reflection. "I have an idea." Alec flashed a phony-sweet smile. "Loser has to shave the winner's balls."

Richie finally sat up a little. "Absolutely fucking not."

"That's sick," Jon chimed in, ignoring the way his heartbeat quickened at the joke.

"And how is that a prize for the winner?" Richie asked.

Alec made a _duh_ face. "Silky smooth balls? The chicks will be _diving_ down to get a mouthful."

Richie smirked. "I don't have a hard time finding divers." He locked eyes with Jon in the mirror. "And lord knows Jonny doesn't."

Jon just scanned his face, wondering if he was supposed to be reading something into the tone of those words.

"OK, OK," Alec raised his hands in surrender. "How about this? At the party tonight, the loser has to tell every hot chick who gets up on him, 'Sorry, sweetie, I got the clap.'"

Jon groaned. "Thanks for your input, Al, but we'll figure this out." He caught Richie's eye in the mirror once again. "I say we start simple for day one. Good old-fashioned money."

Richie studied him for a moment, then broke out into one of those knowing smiles. "You're scared of my Vavoom, aren't you?"

"Yes," Jon answered truthfully.

Richie's smile widened. "You should be."


	2. Chapter 2

"So." Dave plonked his plate down, splattering some of the syrup drowning the pancake tower he'd constructed. "What's the plan?"

Jon took his time chewing his bagel, even though it was basically Wonder Bread in the shape of a circle. Nothing like the bagels back home ... the kind that were just the right amount of crusty, with a dense, intricate texture that absorbed the butter --

Dave snapped his fingers. "Over here."

Jon swallowed. "You forget about the radio interview today?"

Dave shook his head, adopting a phony-serious face. "No. I haven't forgotten about my opportunity to sit in a tiny chair, smashed against a wall, while you talk about our meteoric rise to fame, then take phone calls from fifteen-year-olds who wanna suck your meteoric rise."

Jon folded a bacon strip and shoved it into his mouth. The digs at his new "cover boy" status were funny at first -- months ago, when their lives blew up into a nonstop traveling circus. But they'd long since reached their expiration date.

Dave sawed into his pancake stack. "I _mean,_ how are you gonna redeem yourself from last night's loss?"

_Oh._

Without thinking, Jon scratched at his hair. He hadn't gone into strategy mode yet. He was only out a hundred bucks -- which miraculously was no longer a big deal -- so the defeat hadn't really stung.

"I'm not worried," he assured. "Rich said I could use that hair explosive tonight, so he won't have an unfair advantage." He flashed a smile. "I'm gonna mop the floor with him."

Dave furrowed his brow as he methodically chewed. "Hmm."

Jon blew out a breath. "What?"

Dave shrugged. "Well, _I_ sure wouldn't share my Vavoom."

Jon nabbed another bacon slab. "Guess he's just a better human being than you."

Dave nodded sarcastically -- because he could actually do that. "Yeah. I fall short of the Vavoom standard." He speared some more pancake. "I wouldn't trust him. He might spike the stuff with boric acid."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "What acid?"

"_Boric_ acid. It makes hair fall out -- Duh."

Jon shook his head. "How do you know so much useless shit?"

Dave regarded him with pity. "It's called reading. While you're telling _Rolling Stone_ about your curling-iron techniques, I'm educating myself."

"Huh. So you think Rich is gonna poison me with tainted hairspray?"

"Why not? It's brilliant." Dave's eyes widened and Jon knew his mind was going places. "Like, if a serial killer wanted to knock off rock stars? Poison the hairspray. Eventually, there'd be a massive product recall -- like with Tylenol. Stadium tours worldwide would be canceled due to lack of hair volume."

Jon took a gulp of coffee. "Yeah. OK."

Dave smiled. "You seem unconvinced." He reached across the table and grabbed an obscene number of sugar packets. As he emptied one into his cup, he glanced over.

"He's jealous, y'know."

Jon gaped for a moment, jarred by the non-sequitur. "Of my hair?"

Dave rolled his eyes. "That might be part of it."

Jon inched forward in his chair. "Seriously. What are you talkin' about?"

Dave brandished a weary kind of look. "You can't be shocked. Of course he's jealous."

"Of what?" Jon demanded, even as he admitted to himself it was partly an act. 

"Gee, let's see. The attention? The magazine covers? The chicks?"

Jon snorted -- because that last one, at least, was bullshit. "Please. He gets more girls than the ladies' room at Giants Stadium."

"True. But" -- Dave clasped his hands and fluttered his lashes -- "he's not the _hottest_ rocker in the whole world." 

"Ugh, fuck off," Jon groaned, but couldn't help smiling. It wasn't like the adoration sucked.

Dave smirked. "Trust me, it's obvious. I see it in his face."

Jon felt his smile fading, which seemed stupid, since it was just Dave talking smack over pancakes. "Like when?" he asked lamely.

"I dunno -- Everyday? Every time we go to one of these things and hafta listen to the amazing tale of how good-looking you are?"

Jon opened his mouth, primed to argue. But really, there was nothing to dispute. So he went on the offense.

"Sounds like you're jealous."

Dave bobbed his head. "Yeah, OK. I mean, it's kinda hard not to be. But I'm a piano player, man. I was never gonna be the guy at center stage."

Jon watched as Dave smashed a forkful of pancake into his mouth. And then another.

"So what's your point?" he finally prompted. "Why are you bringing it up?"

Dave shrugged a shoulder. "Just some light breakfast conversation."

Jon wrapped a hand around his coffee cup, just for something to grip. "Did he say something to you?"

Dave tore open another sugar packet. "Are you kidding? What's he gonna say?"

Jon had no answer. He wasn't sure why he even cared. If Richie had a problem with him, that was Richie's problem. He'd just have to get over it. There was no room in their schedule for petty emotions.

Jon polished off his coffee then pushed his chair back. "Whatever. I don't have time for high-school bullshit."

Dave eyed him skeptically. "Our whole existence is high-school bullshit."

Jon shook his head. "Not mine." He rose to his feet. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a hair contest to win."

*****

_"She kinda looks like you."_

_Richie's breath touched his cheek and he fidgeted in his seat. He knew Richie was closing in like that just to be heard. But still ..._

_He took a swig from his pint. "Nah. I got nothin' on her rack."_

_Another puff of air as Richie chuckled. "True. But I'm lookin' at her eyes."_

_"She's got eyes?"_

_Jon kept his gaze straight ahead, because if he turned his head they'd be nose-to-nose. He knew he'd earned a smirk, though. He could feel it._

_"Yeah," Richie murmured by his ear. "They're located to the north of her tits."_

_Jon had a flash then, of how someone once told him that to be heard in a loud room, you had to whisper. Go under the current. Richie must've learned that, too._

_"Guess I'm just bored."_

_This time Jon did turn, tilting his head back so it was less awkward. "Bored?"_

_Richie smiled -- that crooked, heavy-lidded version that meant he'd either smoked a blunt earlier, or he'd been stealthily outpacing Jon by a mile._

_Richie sat back a bit. "Vancouver ruined me for strip clubs. This is amateur hour."_

_Jon shushed him, even though there was no chance anyone would hear, or give a shit. He leaned in close to Richie's ear, just so he didn't have to strain his voice._

_"Someplace else you'd rather be?"_

_He pulled back and Richie just as quickly bridged the gap. "We're in Texas," he drawled, lips hovering over Jon's cheekbone. "Let's grab our cowboy hats and find a honky tonk."_

_Jon wrinkled his nose. "I ain't listenin' to _There's a Tear in My Beer_ when I can be appreciating my twin here."_

_Richie sighed and Jon felt a little tingle where it hit his skin. "OK, let's go to Mexico then."_

_Jon hesitated, unsure whether Richie was serious, or wasted, or both. "You know we have a gig tomorrow, right?"_

_"So? We'll be back by lunch."_

_For an instant, Jon considered it. Or at least let the feeling of the idea -- the relief of getting away and breathing -- wash over him. _

_Then a catcall from the next table brought him back. "Right. You'll land me in a Mexican jail."_

_He slid back in his chair to grab his beer and saw that Richie was still smiling. He drained the rest of his drink._

_"We'd be in deep shit in prison," he warned, half-serious._

_Richie giggled then tossed back the last of his Jack and coke. "Yeah. With those baby blues, you wouldn't stand a chance." He put his elbows on his knees and just scanned Jon's face. With that same fucking annoying smile._

_Jon looked at his empty glass. "And your makeup. You'd be someone's bitch within _cinco minutos._"_

_"C'mon," Richie cajoled, clearly ignoring the taunt. "I won't get us arrested, I swear."_

_Jon shook his head and returned his attention to the stage, where the ashy blonde who supposedly looked like him was in full gyration. He couldn't even see her eyes -- Richie must've been hallucinating._

_"Jonny." He turned to see the smile had shifted, to something different. "C'mon. We won't get another chance."_

_For a moment, he didn't answer. The words seemed gravely final, given the situation._

_"What do you mean? Of course we will."_

_Richie looked at him intently, all the bleariness suddenly gone from his eyes. "Not like this. Y'know, just the two of us -- without the entourage."_

_Again, Jon had no response. Because it suddenly struck him that this was the first time he and Richie had done something alone since ... maybe the days in the basement. Could that be right? So much of the past year was a blur now, he could never be sure. Too many parties, too many strangers coming and going. Too many relationships imploding, too many hook-ups to numb the pain. _

_Richie darted his eyes to the side then back. "You want another beer?"_

_And too many substances. But at least they felt good._

_Jon heaved a sigh. "Nope. I want what you're having."_

_Richie wagged an index finger at him. "Careful. You'll wake up in the desert next to a donkey, wearin' nothing but a sombrero."_

_Jon laughed. "And where will you be?"_

_Richie made a show of mulling that over. "Mexican women's jail," he decided. "The hair can be confusing."_

_He grinned and Jon dipped his chin, needing to look away for some reason. "True."_

_"Don't bail me out."_

_Jon shook his head slightly. "Don't worry."_

_Richie pushed his chair back, putting a hand on the table to prepare for the feat of standing._

_"Hey," Jon said, focusing on that hand. "I would. I mean, if ..."_

_He let the sentiment go because he didn't feel like explaining. And he trusted Richie understood the rest._

_Richie dropped his hand to his lap and said something Jon couldn't catch over the music._

_He looked up. "Huh?"_

_Richie leaned in once again. "It gets old, right? Being told what to do all the time."_

_Jon just studied Richie's face, thrown by the detour from donkeys and women's prisons -- even if he technically started it. He recovered quickly, though._

_"Yeah." _

_Richie smiled faintly. "So let's go. To some shitty town with no MTV. We could roam the streets without disguises."_

_Jon glanced at the stage. "OK, maybe." _

_Richie didn't reply. Even three sheets to the wind, he must've known it was a lie. Jon kept avoiding his eyes as he jutted his chin toward the bar. "I'll be needing that liquor first."_

_There was a pause before Richie again put a steadying hand on the table. "Comin' right up."_

*****

"You awake?"

"Do I sound like someone who was previously awake?"

"I know it's only 2 p.m., but you gotta be ready to go in a half-hour."

Jon sighed testily to make his point, but really he was just giving Richie a hard time. He kind of liked that they had a routine -- a responsible guy/lazy guy schtick. It was partly how he knew, no matter what Dave said, there was no problem between them.

Richie yawned dramatically. "Awesome. Where we goin'?"

"Radio interview."

"Radio? Then I don't even hafta be clean. Wake me in twenty minutes."

Jon cradled the receiver on his shoulder so he could dig for his jeans with the silver studs down the legs. They seemed Texas-y. "You better be clean if you're gonna be in a fucking booth with me."

Richie made a low growly sound. "Really, now?"

Jon halted as the tone triggered a strange little pull in his belly. "Shut up," he groused, to distract himself. "At least rinse yourself off so you don't look homeless. There might be hot chicks there."

Richie yawned again. "I wake up sexy."

Jon rolled his eyes. "As someone who's woken up next to you, I disagree."

"Jonny." It was just his name, but he swore Richie fucking purred it. "Don't talk like that to the radio guy. People will get the wrong idea."

Jon felt that tug again, and suddenly he was growing weirdly agitated with the conversation. "Yeah, yeah. Just don't be late, OK?"

He was about to hang up, but Richie was too quick.

"Hey, Jon? What are the stakes tonight?"

"What?" Jon could feel his heartbeat in his throat now, which was fucking ridiculous.

"The bet. What does the winner get?"

_Oh._

"Um." He switched the receiver to his other shoulder. "I dunno. Haven't thought about it."

"Well, we hafta up the ante, y'know? It can't just be money."

Jon stopped in his tracks again. "Um, OK -- I guess."

Somehow he could sense Richie's smile at the other end of the line. "So think about what you want."

Jon's heart started pounding harder and it was pissing him off. "I don't care," he lied. "It's just a stupid bet. Let Al decide."

"_Al?_ We'll be french-braiding each other's pubes."

"OK, then you decide," Jon snapped, fully aware he was overreacting but unwilling to stop it. "Like I said, I don't give a shit."

There was a stretch of silence before Richie spoke up. "Jonny. You're scared I'm gonna win, aren't you? I'll be the hair king."

And just like that, Jon felt the tension fall away -- possibly replaced by a twinge of guilt. "Yeah," he grumbled mildly. "It keeps me up at night."

"Hmm. OK, well, I'll come up with a prize for tonight. But you hafta start planning the grand prize."

Jon scratched at an eyebrow. "Sounds like a lotta responsibility."

"That's your thing, isn't it?" 

Jon wasn't sure if it was a crack or not, but he supposed it was the truth. "Guess so."

"OK." Richie was smiling now for sure. "Then start thinking about what you want."


	3. Chapter 3

Jon had disputed it -- had gone so far as to demand a recount. But even by Tico's estimation, Richie had won by two inches.

Two fucking inches.

And now he was stuck at a party full of raging, half-naked drunks, forced to tell every horny chick he was on a _sex fast._ That had been Richie's brilliant idea.

_Who's gonna believe something that stupid? They'll just laugh and rub their tits on us. You'll be nailin' a blonde within five minutes._

_Of course I will. 'Cause I'm gonna win. You'll be on the sex fast._

_Like hell I will. _

_You scared?_

_Oh, shut the fuck up._

_Sounds like you're scared, Jonny._

_I'm just stunned you'd come up with such a dumb bet._

_Sex fast._

_Shut up._

_You gotta make 'em believe you -- That's part of the bet. Tell 'em it's your religion._

_My religion? Everyone knows I'm Catholic._

_So tell 'em you went to confession and the priest sentenced you to a thousand 'Hail Mary's' and a sex fast._

_When's the last time you went to confession? They don't _sentence_ you to sex fasts._

_This is Texas. Drunk Baptists don't know that. Anyway, all that matters is, you don't get sex._

_You're not gonna win, dickhead. You're sentencing yourself to a sex fast -- you know that, right?_

_You're scared._

_You're an idiot._

_But I'm not scared._

It had gone on like that until Jon finally gave in. In the end, he'd figured there was no way he'd lose twice in a row anyway -- and it would be fun to see Richie sexless and suffering.

Now he wished he hadn't been such a sucker.

At the start of the night, things had gone as he'd predicted. No one was buying his brush-offs, and he was getting pawed at from every angle -- not that he was fighting it. But then Al started popping up out of fucking nowhere, every ten minutes, warning the girls off.

_"Ladies, I'm sorry. It's doctor's orders. Back in Austin, he was in the ER with a ten-hour erection."_

That one had drawn gasps and _yee-haws._

_"They said, 'Mr. Bongiovi, you're gonna hafta stop blowing your load for a few days, or risk permanent dick damage.' I was there."_

Eventually, the chicks had gotten the message, or disappeared with the next hairy guy who looked like he might be in a band. Or just passed out. And for the first time in ages, Jon found himself leaning against a wall all alone, just him and his beer. Number ... ten? Fuck if he knew.

He drained the last of it as he peered across the room, toward a particularly large cloud of smoke. Richie was still there, same two chicks hanging on him like he was a tree, while he gabbed to some random dude with shaggy bleached-out hair.

Jon wasn't watching them or anything. They just happened to be in his direct line of vision, and he didn't have the will or coordination to move. Every so often, Richie would glance his way, evil little smiles flitting across his face. 

The last time, though, seeing Jon alone, he'd pushed his bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. Jon had shrugged and flipped him off. He couldn't completely fend off a smile, though. Because he was drunk.

He kept eyeing the quartet, realizing on some level that OK, he was staring. But fuck it.

_Wonder which one he'll bang._ He let his empty bottle drop to the carpet. _Maybe all of 'em._

He laughed. It was soft. There was no way anyone would've heard it. Yet Richie looked over, like he had.

_Huh._

Jon smiled, because truly he was blitzed. Richie smiled back, and it seemed like it wasn't evil this time. But maybe that was just the alcohol and exhaustion clouding his perceptions.

It wasn't his imagination, though, that Richie was easing his way free of the girls' grip. Backing away and holding a palm up, as they whined and reached their tendrils out to snare him back.

Jon was momentarily transfixed by their dismay, a strange satisfaction welling inside of him. He was smiling again when Richie turned around, pausing for a moment to make eye contact, before weaving a path toward him.

_He's wasted._

No surprise there, of course. It was just an observation.

"Hey." Richie giggled as he slumped against the wall, like he was winded from the journey.

"Hey." Jon kept his gaze on the sad trio, but his attention was mostly on the warmth at his shoulder, where Richie's bare skin was touching his shirt sleeve.

"You looked lonely."

Jon rolled his eyes. "There's a tear in my beer," he replied, flashing back to the other night.

Richie turned his head and Jon tensed at the feeling of that breath at his ear, just like the other night. "You get no sympathy from me."

Jon bent down to pick up his bottle. Just because. When he straightened up, Richie was looking away.

"I don't need your sympathy." He shifted his weight so he was pressing into Richie's shoulder, just a little. "Why'd you ditch the fan club?"

Richie angled his head toward him. "I'm into that one chick, but the friend has one of those squeaky voices, y'know?"

Jon cringed. He did know. An ear-piercing voice was a huge turn-off, unless it was heavily outweighed by other redeeming qualities.

Richie rubbed at his eyes. "And I think they come as a package deal. Like, all three of 'em."

Jon bobbed his head. "OK, so that guy can take the squeaky one. Win-win."

Richie leaned in. "I don't think he wants the girls."

Jon's mouth fell open before he could help it, and Richie pulled away, cackling. "Why so shocked? You think they only hit Madonna concerts?"

"Shut up," Jon bit back. He hated being condescended to -- and Richie, of all people, knew that.

Just as quickly, though, the irritation lost its hold. He was too far gone to cling. "I'm just surprised you're not interested," he teased. "He's blond, after all."

Richie laughed yet again. It came to him so easily -- high or sober -- sometimes Jon had to shake his head in wonder.

Richie pushed away from the wall and faced him full-on. It was only then that Jon noticed his eyes were narrowed to slits. 

_He's completely gone._

"To be honest," Richie murmured. "I thought I should check on you."

Jon automatically fidgeted, vaguely uncomfortable though he couldn't say why. "Thanks. Pretty sure I can take care of myself."

"Obviously," Richie agreed, swaying a bit on his feet. "What I mean is, I don't trust you. Soon as I leave you're gonna be tappin' the first tail you see."

Jon smirked. "You might be onto me."

Richie returned the look, or tried to with his wonky eyes. "So I'm thinkin' you should leave with me."

In a flash, Jon felt his mental footing slipping away. He wasn't expecting Richie to say ... that. And he wasn't sure how to take it -- which was weird as hell, because he should know exactly how to take it.

"What?"

Richie's smile broadened, showing his gums. "Not like _that,_ man." He planted a palm on the wall next to Jon's shoulder. "We've never even kissed. I'm not that kinda guy."

Jon felt his heartbeat spike, and he reflexively balled his free hand into a fist. Even though it was stupid.

"You're _exactly_ that kinda guy," he taunted, trying to keep the joke going. Because it was, beyond any doubt, a joke. "If your mama only knew."

Richie inched closer. "Is that a threat, Jonny? 'Cause I got plenty of dirt on you. And I got your mom's number. She slipped it in my pocket --"

Jon shoved him hard enough to send him staggering back a couple steps. "Don't even," he ordered, but then dissolved into laughter at Richie's startled expression.

He watched as Richie blinked a couple times, the smile slowly returning -- in yet another incarnation. Jon knew it well, but wasn't used to seeing it directed his way. Before he could let himself ponder the meaning, Richie bridged the gap between them.

"Jeez, Jonny. So aggressive."

Jon couldn't deny the shiver that rolled through him at that tone of voice ... the scent of whiskey and stale smoke that should've been repellent but wasn't. He couldn't deny the fact that his best friend's lips were currently about two inches from his, and _that_ sure as hell should've been repellent.

_Two fucking inches._

Jon brought the empty bottle to his lips, just for an excuse to put some space between them -- and maybe camouflage his face in case it was betraying him.

He pretended to swallow. "That's what you get for insulting my mom's honor."

The infuriating smile never faltered. "C'mon." Richie's hand landed on his upper arm. "Let's go."

Jon dug his feet in. "Where?"

Richie sighed and rolled his eyes. "Just down the hall, for fuck's sake. I've got the finest-quality Mexican weed money can buy." 

Jon narrowed his eyes, genuinely confused now. "Not even moving my head, I can see at least five chicks who are fucking salivating over us. Why would you wanna leave?"

Richie shrugged a shoulder. "I can use a night off sometimes."

Jon snorted. "Since when? And you realize you're defeating your own win, right? I'm the one on the sex fast."

Richie dipped his chin, biting his bottom lip -- and if Jon didn't know better, he would've sworn the bitch was flirting.

"I feel like my Vavoom win wasn't fair." Richie glanced up coyly. "So I'm gonna forfeit this one to you."

Jon stared for a moment. "Wait. That means I'm free to hook up."

Richie shrugged again. "Guess so."

He looked down at his feet, and Jon was left wordless, trying to fathom why Richie was letting him off the hook ... or why he, himself, wasn't launching a search party for the brunette double-D he'd seen by the balcony earlier. 

Jon took a scan of the suite. He didn't see the brunette, or really anyone. It was just a sea of strange, blurry faces at this point. Bodies pressing indiscriminately into one another. Just a random collision of drugs, hormones and willingness. In some city he wouldn't remember tomorrow.

Maybe taking a night off wasn't such a bad idea ...

He looked at Richie. "This better be the best fucking weed I've ever had."

*****

"Good, huh?"

"Hmm?" 

"The pot. It's, like, you take two hits and then ..."

Richie didn't finish the sentiment, and Jon supposed there was nothing more to say. He considered opening his eyes, but his eyelids were too heavy to move -- so he just offered another _hmm._

Richie giggled. "Guess that's my answer."

Jon felt the bed shift, and instinct told him he should look. But it seemed like too damn much trouble. He was sprawled across the foot of the bed, and last he noticed Richie was slumped against the headboard -- way the hell away. Too much trouble.

The bed rocked again, and he realized Richie must've simply stood up then flopped back down.

_He's toast, poor fucker._

"Hey, Jonny?"

"Huh?"

"You mad I pulled you away from the party?"

Jon managed to peel one eye open. Mad? He was barely conscious.

"Unh-uh. Why?"

"Cuz you're not using any words."

Jon licked his lips. "I'm just kinda ..."

Another giggle. "High and dry." The bed moved once more, and Jon was set to bitch about it when Richie spoke again. "Lemme get you some water."

Oh. That sounded good. "'Kay."

It seemed like only a second passed before Richie's voice was right above him. "Here."

Jon slowly blinked his eyes open to see a glass being held out to him. "You gonna sit up, or should I dump this on your head?"

"If you want a punch in the face," Jon grumbled -- though he supposed it was an idle threat, considering the epic struggle he was waging just to haul himself upright.

As soon as he handed over the glass, Richie plopped down beside him. 

Jon gave him the side-eye, and in the process finally registered the naked thighs. He swallowed. "When did you take your clothes off?"

Richie made some kind of disbelieving sound. "Um, as soon as we walked through the door? You know I can't stand clothes."

Jon nodded. He did know that. So there was no reason it should be bothering him now. Anyway, Richie was still wearing boxers and a tank -- prudish by his bedtime standards.

"Does it bother you?"

Jon lifted his head, surprised to hear the question out loud and not in his own head.

"Huh? Course not." He ducked his head again and took another sip from the glass.

"OK. I was just askin' cuz ... You're acting like it's weird."

For the first time that night, Jon thought he detected uncertainty in Richie's voice -- maybe even awkwardness.

"No, I'm not," he denied, then tipped his head back to polish off the water.

"OK," Richie repeated. "Um, you want another hit, or ..."

Jon put the glass on the bed then dropped onto his back. "I don't think that's necessary."

"Yeah, I sense that."

Jon smiled faintly. "Why aren't you in a coma? Saw you dabbling in substances with your orgy buddies."

"Hmm. I've worked hard on my tolerance."

Jon closed his eyes. He knew that, too.

"Sure you're not mad? That you're not in an orgy right now?"

"Nah. A night off is good."

"Yeah."

They fell into silence, like that was that. But something compelled Jon to speak again. "This is good."

The bed shifted and Jon felt a strange swoop in his belly. Or not strange, really. He knew that sensation very well. But there was no reason to be feeling it now.

"Yeah."

It took a second for him to understand that Richie was agreeing. Saying he thought this was good, too. Jon waited, but there was nothing more. And suddenly he was wide awake and overcome with the need to fill the quiet.

"Of course, _you're_ definitely missing out," he babbled to the ceiling. "Still don't know why you didn't grab your earplugs and nail that chick you wanted."

"I told you." He could hear the smile in Richie's voice. "It wasn't my kinda situation."

Jon laid a palm on his belly as that same sensation took hold. "That's not true." He paused, unsure of his next words. "You've been in some ... interesting situations. I mean, we both have."

"Yeah, but ..."

Jon turned his head, away from Richie and toward the suite door. "But what?"

He knew precisely what Richie was saying, and there was no reason for him to be prodding. But reason seemed to be escaping him in this room.

"Well." Richie hesitated. "It's never been like _that._ With the guy ... y'know."

Jon felt his toes curl involuntarily. "Right. Guess I just thought you'd give anything a shot, if the girls are hot enough."

There was a beat of silence and Jon held his breath -- wondering if he might've achieved the impossible and offended Richie. Wondering why he was going down this path at all.

But then he heard that familiar chuckle. "You think very highly of me."

"I didn't ..." Jon scrubbed a hand over his face. _The fuck am I doing?_

"Well, I do," he reversed course. "I think highly of you."

No answer ... which gave Jon time to grasp what a stupid, sappy statement --

He flinched as Richie fell back onto the bed next to him, rolling onto his side and propping his head on his hand. Jon could see it all unfold in his peripheral vision, so he didn't have to look over. If he turned his head, they'd be too close.

"What about you?" Richie asked softly.

Jon cleared his throat. "What?"

"Would you? Like, be OK doin' something with a guy, if the girls were hot?"

_The fuck?_

Jon pushed onto his forearms, to a safe distance, then shot Richie his best glare. "What? Why are you even asking?"

Richie smiled, just a little. "Cuz you just said you thought _I_ would."

"I was kidding." Jon forced a laugh, even though his heart was pounding into his fucking throat now. "Does high-quality pot kill more brain cells than schwag does?"

Richie just studied him, shameless as hell, until Jon started to feel his skin prickle -- down low. He was about to stand up, or try to, when Richie rolled onto his back.

"OK. Never mind."

Jon sat up all the way, feeling queasy from the motion but at least more in control.

"Never mind what?"

Richie swiped some hair from his eyes. "I thought you were serious. What you just said."

"What? That you'd do anything if the girl was hot enough?"

Richie kept fiddling with his hair. "No. That I'd mess around with a guy."

"I didn't say that."

"Yeah, you did."

Jon paused to think. Was that right? His head was swimming from the effort of being vertical, but he was sure the answer was _no._

"That's not what I said," he insisted. "I just said you're a huge slut."

Richie bent his knees and heaved his feet onto the bed. "OK."

Jon sighed, knowing full well what that _OK_ signified. "I don't think you'd mess around with a guy, OK? I was just playin' with you."

"OK."

_For fuck's sake._ "I'm sorry."

Richie flipped onto his side again, drawing his knees toward his chest. "You don't hafta say you're sorry. I ain't mad."

Jon scoffed. "Yeah, right. Then why are you acting so weird now?"

"Guess all those substances are catching up with me."

Jon groaned and stretched out on the bed again. It was too much work to hold himself up. He made sure, though, to position himself higher, so they weren't side by side anymore.

"It was a joke," he grumped, just to make sure the message went through.

"Oh-_kayy._"

Jon felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Bitch."

"Uh-huh. You didn't answer my question, though. Would you?"

Jon growled in frustration, and maybe in anger at the insistent tingling coursing through his skin. "Of course not. You little shit." 

His tone was harsher than he'd intended, but that was Richie's damn fault, for always provoking when he should leave it alone.

No answer.

Jon blew out a breath. "Rich? OK if I crash here?" He knew the plea, at this moment, sounded pathetic. "I'm kinda ... not functional."

"Yeah. It's cool."

Neither of them moved, though, and it wasn't long before Jon felt the heaviness of his body dragging him toward sleep. He fought it, dimly aware their situation wasn't ideal ... Richie curled like a fucking six-foot cat at the foot of the bed ... himself cocooned in his too-tight jeans, warm but not warm enough.

Still, neither one of them seemed willing to make a move.

He only realized he was drifting off when he was roused by a dip in the mattress ... and the soft sound of Richie sliding up along the comforter, getting just a little closer.

"Jonny? I have an idea for our next bet."


	4. Chapter 4

In retrospect, it must've been the best weed he'd ever had. It had loosened his connection to his physical body -- in the semi-good way where he was feeling things but not so attached to them. Otherwise, he probably would've bolted from the room the second he'd felt the weight and warmth of Richie's barely-clad body invading his personal space.

Or maybe it was the worst weed he'd ever had. Because it had robbed him of the ability to fucking bolt from the room, like any reasonable not-gay guy would. And, apparently, it had loosened his connection to his mental faculties, too. Otherwise, he never would've agreed to it.

_"Next time, loser has to kiss a guy."_

_"What? No fucking way."_

_"A real kiss -- on the lips. Winner has to witness it."_

_"You deaf? No fucking way._

He would've stuck by that refusal. He would've convinced Richie he was out of his mind -- too trashed to be wagering, to be toying with anything as precious as their public sexuality. 

_"You're scared."_

_"Uh, yeah. Why aren't you?"_

_"'Cause I'm gonna win."_

_"Dude, I will go to the salon and get a fucking beehive to beat you."_

_"That's fine. I ain't scared."_

_Richie scooted close enough that Jon could see his face without the herculean effort of moving his head. That also meant things were getting entirely too freaky. Jon reached for a pillow, as an excuse to put a buffer between them._

_"For real -- I'll stop at nothing to destroy you."_

_Richie just smiled. "You can't scare me."_

_The little fucker._

_"I'm warning you, Rich. All the Vavoom in the world won't save you."_

_"Whatever you say."_

_Fucking little fucker._

_Jon punched the pillow then dropped his head onto it. "I won't let you off the hook when you lose."_

_"Wouldn't even ask."_

_"And you can't kiss Dave, or Al. Or Teek."_

_"Tico would end my life."_

_Jon laughed -- or at least he thought he did. In his head, he was laughing. He rubbed at his eyes, feeling his last remnants of resistance crumbling. Sober, he was the most stubborn sonuvabitch he knew. It was a whole different story when he was high._

_He peered at Richie and sighed. "You'll regret this in the light of day."_

_The smile only grew. "I'll take that as a 'yes.'"_

And that was how he'd ended up here, poised to wage a hair battle for the ages. Because nothing -- no bet, no drug, no amount of liquor -- would get him to lay his lips on another guy's. And if ...

_Oh, shit._

Had they talked about tongues? He wracked his brain but couldn't remember.

_Hafta tell him there's a no-tongue clause._

Not that it mattered, since he wasn't going to lose. And he couldn't care less what Richie did with whatever poor bastard ended up as his victim. If he wanted to slip his tongue in, then may he go with God.

_I don't give a shit._

Jon shook his head and tried to focus on the task at hand, surveying the armament he'd laid out at the sink. Hairdryer with diffuser attachment, round brush, curling iron, mousse, wire-bristle hairbrush for teasing -- not a comb, like a lot of chumps used -- and, finally, his most valued weapon. The can of Vavoom he'd swiped while sneaking out of Richie's room that morning.

Jon smiled. A Vavoom-less Richie was a vulnerable Richie. 

He supposed he could be disqualified for cheating. On the other hand, they'd never set any rules on hair-product theft.

He looked in the mirror. His plan was to run a drill, practice some techniques that could give him an edge. Perfect his strategy now so that come tonight, Richie wouldn't know what hit him.

"Step one," he mumbled, grabbing the mousse to slap onto his damp hair.

He figured he'd go for classic maneuvers, but with extra gusto. Use a round brush to lift a chunk of hair at its roots, then blast it with the hairdryer ... Repeat until almost dry, then bend over and hit the whole thing with Vavoom from underneath ... Use the brush to tease sections skyward, moving systematically from back to front ... Douse each section with Vavoom, front _and_ back ... Finish with the curling iron as needed.

It did occur to him, as the dryer whirred around his brain, that his level of intensity might be overkill. But then, the stakes were pretty fucking high.

If Richie saw it all as a joke, some prank that merely involved being a little gay, then great. Let him be the one to humiliate himself -- at best. Or get decked in the jaw, at worst. Jon wasn't up for either scenario.

He'd be happy to watch from the sidelines, arms wrapped around the curvy Southern belle of the evening. His forced chastity last night -- being stuck in bed with a very un-curvy form -- had him in a heightened state of need that morning. As soon as he'd gotten back to his room, he'd hit the shower to jack off -- but that was never a satisfying substitute. He'd be going out of his mind by tonight.

And like hell was he letting Richie cockblock him again.

*****

"Jesus Christ, Jon. What the fuck is that?"

Jon adopted an innocent air as he strolled from the doorway to his station in the dressing room -- Al and Dave gaping at him the whole way. He set down his bag full of hair tools and turned to face them.

"What?"

Alec's eyes bugged out. "Oh, sorry, let me be specific. Do you know an alien is eating your head?"

Jon angled toward the mirror and smiled. It was even more dramatic in the vanity lights -- The fluorescent bathroom lighting had failed to illuminate all of its textured glory.

"You mean my hair?"

"That's your actual hair?" Dave almost choked. "How many rats you have livin' in there?"

Jon looked pointedly at Dave's extensions. "You wanna go there?"

Dave shook his head. "Unh-uh, man. You've moved into another realm." He grinned. "You look like a total asshole."

Jon shrugged. "But I'm gonna win."

Al started cackling. "For Christ's sake, what's the penalty? Loser gets set on fire?"

Jon dropped into a folding chair. "Close." He looked down at his feet because he couldn't face them. "Loser has to kiss a guy on the mouth."

He winced as a chorus of whoops and guffaws broke out.

"Who came up with that one?" Alec demanded, then immediately held up a hand at Jon's look. "Never mind."

"And now" -- Jon sat back and smiled smugly -- "he's gonna pay for it."

Alec reached for a pack of cigarettes. "Eh. It's not that big a deal, actually. It's a totally G-rated bet."

"You serious?" Jon's voice went up an octave. "Would you kiss a dude?"

Al smiled as he lit up. He took a long drag then shrugged. "Why not? I mean, if I lost a bet, and he was pretty enough."

Jon sensed his cheeks warming, which made no kind of sense, so he forced a laugh. "OK, then. When Rich loses I'll send him your way."

Alec wrinkled his nose. "Not my type. Too leggy."

The heat migrated downward, which made even less sense. But he had no intention of dwelling on it. "Where is Rich, anyway?"

"Haven't seen him since sound check," Dave replied, before crossing his arms and eyeing Jon critically. "Seriously, are you gonna go onstage like that?"

Jon sighed. "It'll calm down once we're out there. Anyway" -- He flashed a knowing grin -- "the girls ain't lookin' at my hair."

Dave made a pained expression. "Pretty sure they will be tonight."

Jon was about to respond when Tico wandered in, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He paused as he spied the spectacle.

"The fuck is that?" He jutted his chin toward Jon. "You look like an asshole."

More cackling.

"Jonny is desperate to win tonight's hair contest," Alec offered helpfully.

"Oh." Tico loped to a chair, clearly losing interest.

"You don't wanna know why?" Dave pressed.

"Nope." Tico sat down with a grunt. "But if I gotta judge that shit, let's get it over with now."

"I'm feelin' pretty good about Jon's chances," Alec declared. "Anyone wanna wager?"

"How much?" Dave replied.

"Nothin' crazy. Let's say a hundred bucks -- My money's on Jon, of course."

Dave worked his jaw, considering. "Hmm. I dunno, man." He pointed at Jon. "That's enough hair for three heads. Can't see Rich beating it."

Jon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He wished he could be so confident ... But there were no signs of Richie's elaborate hair-and-makeup supply in the dressing room. He must be off somewhere, putting on the fucking ritz.

Jon's mind drifted to a movie he and Richie had kind of watched a couple years back, hung over in a motel room and unwilling to hunt for the remote. It was about French people in the 1700s, and one chick had used a wire cage to create a hair torpedo that stood about three feet tall at the top of her head.

He wouldn't put it past Richie to try.

"Where is he?" Jon started bouncing his knee up and down. "We're on pretty soon."

Al snorted. "He's probably tryin' to use his amp to electrify his hair."

Jon went stock-still, mildly alarmed. He wouldn't put _that_ past Richie, either. "Someone better go find him."

"Who me?"

They all looked toward the door to see Richie standing there, wearing sweats, a t-shirt and --

_What the fucking hell?_

At first, Jon could only stare. He'd been imaging a lot of things ... all the ways Richie could conceivably pump up the volume ... what he would do if, improbably, he lost to Richie again ... how he could weasel his way out of the punishment, without being forever condemned as a welsher. 

But he'd never envisioned this.

Richie's hair was ... flat. Flat as fucking Florida. Fringe hanging limply, almost covering his eyes. No attempts at feathering, teasing, elevating. No evidence of product. It was just a mop of ordinary brown hair, yielding to the force of gravity. 

Jon slowly rose to his feet. "What are you doing?"

Richie blinked, like he had no idea what Jon was asking. Like there wasn't a massive, unmoving hair beast swallowing Jon's head.

"Dude," Dave chimed in. "That is _not_ the hair of a winner."

Richie looked around at everyone before dipping his chin sheepishly. "I couldn't find my Vavoom."

Jon felt an instant stab of guilt at the plaintive tone. Then he realized he was being bamboozled by a manipulative bitch.

"Oh, come on," Al squawked. "There are other ways to blow up your hair, my friend. _You,_ of all people, know that."

Richie shrugged and meandered over to a mirror, as far away from Jon as possible. He stood there, fluffing his bangs and taking in his image.

"I like it," he murmured. 

And Jon finally found his voice. "Rich, what the hell? You know what the consequence is, don't you?"

Richie glanced over his shoulder. "Uh-huh."

"And you" -- Jon waved a hand at him -- "you didn't even try?"

Richie looked in the mirror, catching Jon's reflection. "I told you." He smiled. "Lost my Vavoom somehow."

Jon folded his arms, overtaken by a mix of bewilderment and anger. And he didn't understand it, because he should be thrilled. He should be doing a goddamn end-zone dance right now. But instead he was angry.

"You gave up," he accused. "Why would you do that?"

"I didn't," Richie denied, moving to the racks to retrieve his spandex and sequins.

Jon knew it was a lie -- not only because it was ludicrous, but because Richie always looked away when he was bullshitting.

"You must _really_ wanna kiss a guy," Alec observed.

Richie tossed off a half-hearted "fuck you," but when he turned around he was smiling.

"It's no big deal," he said dismissively. "Just hafta find a drunk guy, lay one on him, then run."

Dave gave a quick nod. "Sounds like good, clean fun."

"So to be clear," Tico broke in. "I don't hafta measure anything, right?" 

Jon sighed in frustration, taking a few steps toward Richie. "How can you ...?" He pointed at his hair mountain. "You made me do this."

Richie smiled in that irksome way of his. "It's very impressive, I gotta say."

"I look like a douchebag," Jon fumed.

The guys were all snickering now, and Richie ducked his head, obviously trying to maintain his composure. "Um." He glanced over. "Yeah, OK."

"Jonny, don't worry," Alec spoke up. "We can try to punch it down."

Jon ignored him, crowding Richie's space and aiming an index finger at his nose. "You planned on losing, the whole time."

Richie leaned back a bit, eyes widening. "What? You're crazy."

Jon gave him The Look. "The whole point was to make me look like a tool, wasn't it? You knew I'd take extreme measures to win, and now I'm gonna be the only jackass lookin' like this on stage."

That had to be the reason, he told himself. Otherwise, he'd have to accept the fact that Richie threw the contest in order to kiss a dude. And there was no fucking way ...

"You're paranoid," Richie diagnosed, then unceremoniously dropped his sweats.

Jon averted his eyes -- the bastard hated underwear, and tonight was no exception apparently.

"Then tell me." Jon kept his gaze on the table, where Richie had dumped his eighteen eyeliners. "Why do you look like that?"

Richie abruptly moved in again, so his lips were inches away, and Jon's body went rigid. He refused to look, but he couldn't disregard the fact that Richie was mostly naked.

"I told you why."

Jon backed away a bit and cleared his throat. "Well ... You're gonna pay up, you know."

In the mirror, he could see that Richie was putting on some briefs, so he allowed himself to look over. "I'm not letting you off the hook. Remember?"

Richie shot him a glare as he began the labored process of tugging his spandex up. "Yeah, I remember. Don't worry."

"I'm not worried," Jon sniped lamely. "I just ..."

He had no idea what he was trying to say. He just knew he was pissed -- to a degree a hair contest did not warrant. And that knowledge agitated him even more.

"Just hurry up," he grumbled. "We gotta be out there."

Richie raised his eyebrows. "I'm not new here."

Jon opened his mouth, on the brink of dishing the snark back, but then thought better of it. He needed to focus on his job -- which, yeah, involved big hair and spandex and surly guitarists, but was a job nonetheless. And he was a fucking professional.

"Be ready in five," he muttered before turning to walk away.

"Hey, Jonny?"

He glanced back, and there was that smile again. "You really do look like a tool."

*****

In a way, he had to give up some kudos. Richie's commitment and fearlessness was something to behold. And secretly, Jon had always respected the guy's willingness to be shot down. That was how they'd met, after all.

On the other hand, he had to wonder what the fuck the nut job was playing at. Because there didn't seem to be any point to this particular plunge into the unknown. 

"I can't believe he's really gonna do it," Dave marveled, then giggled like an idiot.

"How come?" Jon took a pull from his beer, gaze never wavering from the scene unfolding across the suite.

Dave unleashed a resounding beer belch. "How _come?_ Well, he's not gay -- minor detail."

Jon brought the bottle to his lap. "So?"

He could sense Dave's eyes boring into the side of his skull. "You're awfully _nonchalant_ all of a sudden. A few hours ago, kissing a dude was roughly equivalent to being set on fire."

Jon brought the bottle to his lips. "Uh-huh."

"You OK?"

To the lap. "Yep."

"Just takin' a break from speaking in sentences?"

Jon nodded then helped himself to another swig.

"You know this is a party, right?"

Dave's constant conversing was getting on his last nerve. "I'm concentrating," Jon explained. "I hafta witness this."

"Umm -- OK?"

Jon sighed but didn't break his visual focus. "If I let him outta my sight for a minute, he'll claim he did it."

"But it wouldn't be legit," Dave countered, reasonably. "'Cause you have to see it."

Jon leaned to right, almost hanging over the arm of the couch, as two squealing, bouncing groupies obscured his view. "Uh-huh."

Dave muttered something he didn't catch -- which was fine. He was too busy trying to discern what, exactly, Richie was doing.

Why had he zeroed in on _this_ guy? He was just the typical leather-wearing, ratty-haired rock-star wannabe. Not special or striking in any way. Not especially good-looking.

Not that it mattered. _It doesn't matter at all._

Richie wasn't looking to score, for fuck's sake. He was just being a good sport and fulfilling his betting duties. He was just --

Putting his hand on the guy's upper arm. Angling his head to speak close to the guy's ear.

_The fuck?_

Jon felt his mouth go dry as he watched ... as the guy moved forward to whisper his response, his stupid ugly-ass lips almost touching Richie's --  
"Hey, Jonny. You haven't blinked for, like, a minute."

Jesus Christ, would Dave just shut up? 

Jon tilted his head some more, as another annoying-as-shit drunk stepped in his way. He caught Richie pulling back from the dude, just a little, doing one of those goddamn lip-bites he'd perfected with the girls. The one that was equal parts cute and dirty. 

Not that Jon had analyzed it or whatever. Richie just did it ad nauseam, so it was hard not to notice.

"Any action yet?" Dave inquired.

Jon shushed him.

"What? You think they can hear me?"

Jon growled. "I'm just sick of listening to you."

"Y'know what? You take all the fucking fun out of gay hair contests."

Jon looked over sharply. "It's not _gay._"

Dave held up a hand. "Coulda fooled me."

Jon gave him a withering stare before going back on watch -- just in time to catch the dude going on the offensive. Bringing his hand to Richie's arm now, like he'd been given the green light to get touchy-feely.

_What the actual fuck?_

Jon could feel his heartbeat accelerating. It wasn't supposed to go like this. Richie was supposed to plant a sloppy one on some unsuspecting male -- preferably not one big enough to kick his ass -- and then play it off as a joke, like only he could. 

There wasn't supposed to be any flirting or foreplay. No extraneous touching. No come-hither smiles or fucking lip-biting. No _participation_ of the other guy, in any way, shape or form. At least that was how Jon had foreseen it.

"Hey."

It wasn't until he heard Dave's voice that he realized he was standing. He looked down to see Dave reaching for him, and side-stepped him just in time.

"What are you doing?" Dave demanded. "You can't go over there. First rule of gay hair betting."

Jon ignored him, turning on his heel and striding across the room -- a bit unsteadily -- to put an end to the insanity. Because that's what it was. He couldn't let his bandmate be publicly humiliated like this.

"Hey, Rich."

He wasn't loud enough, apparently, because Richie's attention didn't stray an inch from his new friend.

"Hey," Jon repeated, clapping his hand onto Richie's shoulder as he pulled up to the pair.

Richie stepped back, opening the barest amount of space between him and Hairy Dude, and regarded Jon with ... He wasn't sure.

But it wasn't surprise. If anything, Richie had the air of someone who'd been expecting a visit. Still, in his current state of inebriation, Jon couldn't tell if he was reading the signals right. Anyway, it didn't matter.

"Um." He pushed his hair back from his face. "Can I talk to you?"

Richie glanced at his friend. "Right now?"

Jon nodded, refusing to acknowledge the presence of the third wheel. He brought his hand to Richie's arm, because _he_ could do shit like that. "C'mon. Just for a minute."

He heard Richie say something to the guy as they moved away, but the words didn't register. They didn't matter.

Jon made a beeline for the first unoccupied stretch of wall space in sight, drawing Richie along -- making him bypass the strangers reaching out, trying to engage them. He didn't have time.

"Listen," Jon said the moment they came to a halt. "I'm letting you off the hook."

Richie just blinked a couple times, and Jon was unsure whether he was too wasted to comprehend, or was weighing his answer.

"What do you mean?" Richie asked, leaning against the wall.

Jon shifted to look him in the eyes. "I mean I'm letting you off the hook. You don't hafta do it."

Richie furrowed his brow like he was confused, but it was obviously an act. "Do what?"

Jon sighed. "Jesus Christ -- the bet. I'm stopping you before it goes too far."

Richie smiled faintly. "Oh." A second later, he shrugged. "It's fine -- You won. I can be a man and kiss a guy."

Jon automatically flinched at the words. He looked around, then leaned in a little. "No, it's ..."

Richie's gaze dipped to Jon's lips then back up. "It's what?"

Without thinking, Jon laid a hand on his arm again, gripping the leather there. "I don't want you to."

The smile faded and Richie cast his eyes down. "Huh. How come?" Jon watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. 

Jon pressed his lips together. He didn't know the answer. "I just ... It's not right."

Richie exhaled a little laugh, still looking away. "You're objecting on moral grounds?"

"No, I ..." Jon released his hold on the leather sleeve but let his palm hover there. "I don't want you to do it, OK?"

Richie didn't answer or meet his eyes. But Jon could see his expression softening.

"Um." Richie ran a hand through his hair. "That kinda puts a damper on my night." He finally made eye contact. "I think all the hot chicks have been taken by now."

It was bullshit, of course. They knew -- everyone knew -- they could have anyone they wanted, any time. Jon knew he could turn around, decide which hot and willing girl -- or girls -- he wanted, and that would be it.

But somehow he was stuck in place. 

He dropped his arm and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Well ... We could get outta here."

Richie's eyes widened, in genuine surprise, and Jon couldn't help feeling smug. That lasted for about three seconds, before the implications of his words set in.

"I mean" -- He scratched at his nose to hide his face -- "you still got some of that weed, right?"

Richie watched him for a moment before nodding slowly. "Yeah. You really wanna turn in early again?"

Jon nodded. "Yeah," he said, like it was nothing -- as if his heart weren't making its way into his throat. "I'm not interested in anyone here."

It wasn't entirely true, but it was close enough.

Richie smiled again, tentatively. "OK."


	5. Chapter 5

"So." Jon exhaled a cloud of smoke into Richie's face. "You wanna tell me why you threw the contest?"

Richie inhaled like he was sniffing a bouquet of roses, then snared the pipe from Jon's hand. "I didn't." He pointed toward the lighter. "You stole my Vavoom."

Jon slapped the lighter into his palm. "You _did._ How come?"

Richie took his sweet time with his hit -- making a show of wrapping his lips around the pipe, drawing in, closing his eyes like he was savoring the ecstasy. Jon knew he was staring but somehow didn't care, even as Richie blew a soft, steady stream into his face.

Even as he smiled, eyes heavy-lidded but somehow still conveying that annoying as hell twinkle. 

"Figure it out."

Jon felt a now-familiar prickle underneath his belly skin, far too low to be OK. He had to admit it now -- but only in his mind.

He flipped onto his stomach, shifting away from Richie on the bed. "Don't be a brat. Tell me."

Richie tossed off a defiant look and scooted back to lean against his pillow stack at the headboard.

"You really wanna know?" He raised an eyebrow, and Jon matched it -- or thought so. Fine-motor coordination was becoming a challenge.

"I asked, didn't I?"

Richie smirked. "It's like you said. I wanted you to look like a douchebag on stage."

Jon's stomach sank at the words, and it felt a lot like disappointment -- which was disturbing as hell.

He pushed to sit up, though the transition made him woozy. "That so? Guess Dave was right then."

Richie's eyes widened, and for a moment Jon basked in the glory of throwing the smug bastard off. Then he realized he was treading into murky waters, with no exit strategy.

"Right about what?"

Jon balked, wavering on whether he should make some shit up or tell the truth. Ultimately, his dulled brain activity made the choice for him.

"He said you're jealous of me."

_There. Take that._

Richie blinked a couple times then shook his head slightly -- like his mind had actually been boggled.

"Um. No, that's not it ... I mean" -- He reached for a glass of water on the nightstand, in a classic delay tactic -- "OK, yeah. Sometimes." He took a gulp. "But can you blame me?"

Jon didn't know how to answer, so he just shrugged a shoulder, leaving it up to interpretation.

Richie sighed and held the glass out. "Thirsty?"

Jon wrinkled his nose.

"Seriously?" Richie goggled at him. "We've been sharing a pipe, idiot."

Jon jutted his chin toward the glass. "But that's got your backwash in it."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Richie put the water aside. "Fine -- Dehydrate and shrivel up. I don't give a shit."

"So you're jealous?" Jon prompted, unsure what was driving him, but not really capable of introspection, either.

"Well, like I just said," Richie turned up the bitch dial, "it's hard not to be. I gotta be the sidekick to Jon Bon fucking Jovi, after all."

Jon automatically sat up taller, his fight-or-flight instincts kicking in.

"Yeah, poor baby. Richie Sam-fucking-bora gets no attention."

Richie smiled, but it was a tough-to-decipher variant -- the kind he showed to precious few people.

"What did that radio chick in Florida call me? Ricky Sandblower?"

Jon snorted. It was just like Richie to use a detour, an ostensible joke, to make a point.

"Florida," Jon murmured, his annoyance evaporating in a flash -- as it always did when he was high. It was too much work to hold on to hard feelings. "That's what I thought when I saw your hair. Flat as fucking Florida."

Richie made an indignant sound. "Do not compare my hair to Florida. I hate that godforsaken place. Nothin' but Waffle Houses ... And you can't get real Dr. Pepper, remember?"

Jon hazily recalled some kind of Dr. Pepper controversy from the Ratt tour --- and Richie must've read the uncertainty in his face, because he started furnishing details.

"I asked for Dr. Pepper, and the waitress said, 'Oh, honey, we don't have that here. We got Mr. Pibb.' And I'm like, 'Mr. _Pibb?_ Hell no -- My soda's gotta have an M.D.'"

Jon laughed, mostly because Richie was becoming so animated about a soda incident in Florida, from what seemed like a different lifetime.

"OK, OK." He held a hand up in surrender. "I'll never compare your hair to Florida again."

"Damn right."

Jon rolled his eyes. "You haven't answered my question, so I'll ask again -- _Why_ did you throw the bet?"

Richie let his head loll back against the pillows, fluttering his lips like a horse. A beat later, he peered at Jon. "You really can't figure it out?"

Jon's chest tightened. Yeah, he had an idea, but he refused to be the one to say it out loud. He wasn't even sure, despite the digging, that he wanted to hear the words at all --

"OK, fine," Richie relented. "I wanted to kiss a guy." He looked Jon in the eyes. "Is that what you wanna hear?"

Jon swallowed, willing his voice not to betray him. "I want the real reason. Is that it?"

"Yep." Richie flashed another damn smile, which meant it had to be a joke. It couldn't be anything else.

"Huh." Jon thought his tone sounded sufficiently casual. "That's interesting."

"Yep."

Jon pressed his lips together, considering whether he should leave well enough alone. But that was never really his thing ...

"So what were you gonna do with that guy? Just plant one on him, in front of everyone?" 

He inwardly congratulated himself on his teasing timbre.

Richie shifted in his seat then shrugged. "I wasn't sure. I was tryin' to figure out if he was really interested or just drunk. Y'know how people kinda get universally flirty when they're wasted?"

Jon did know. "So ... Were you gonna kiss him if you thought he _was_ interested, or if he wasn't?"

Richie eyed him, with something like reluctant admiration. "What do you care?"

Jon rolled onto his stomach again, propping his chin on his hands. "I'm just wonderin'. Like, if you were gonna risk being punched, or ..."

"Or what?"

Jon moved onto his side, so he wasn't facing Richie directly. "Well ..." He looked at the water glass by the lamp. He wished he'd taken that offer, because his throat was raw now. "If he was interested, he might've wanted, y'know, _more._"

"Uh-huh."

Jon's heartbeat quickened -- he could feel it against the mattress underneath him. "So you were -- You'd be willing to take that chance?"

"Lemme ask _you_ a question."

Jon looked over to see Richie watching him intently. "How come you stopped me? You won, I lost."

Jon opened then closed his mouth, struck by the fact that he had no answer. Not one that was true and that he cared to admit. He swallowed again.

"I -- I couldn't let you do that. With all those people around."

"Why?"

Jon sighed. What kind of a fucking question was that?

"'Cause they'd think you were" -- He gestured vaguely, in lieu of words -- "It just wasn't right, OK?"

Richie kept staring, face unreadable.

"What?" Jon snapped.

That earned a little shrug. "Nothin'," Richie replied, all phony innocence. "I just wonder what Dave would say."

Jon did a double-take then sat up, crossing his legs. "What are you goin' on about?"

"You got ants in your pants? You're movin', like, every three seconds."

"What do you mean, you wonder what Dave would say?"

Richie's lips curled into a half-smile. "I wonder if he'd say you're jealous."

Jon felt his eyes bug out. "Jealous? Of who?"

He understood full well what Richie meant, but he couldn't accept it. For once, he needed to be wrong.

"You know," Richie replied, his voice unexpectedly soft -- and weirdly unnerving.

Jon laughed woodenly. "You are beyond high, man. Sure your _boyfriend_ didn't slip somethin' into your drink?"

He instantly cringed at the bitterness in his voice, knowing exactly how it would come across.

"Hmm." The smile predictably widened. "You definitely sound jealous, Jonny."

Jon tossed his hands up. "OK. I think it's time to leave."

Richie tilted his head to the side. "'Kay."

Jon leaned his elbows on his knees. "You're really fucked up, you know that? You're the one starting hair bets, then throwing them, then gettin' all up on some _dude._ And now you're trying to tell me I'm _jealous?_ That's seriously messed up."

Richie yawned. "Thought you were leavin'."

Jon jabbed an index finger at him. "And you're lucky. If I hadn't stopped you, that woulda been it. Everyone would've thought you're ..."

"What?"

Jon couldn't help growling at the blatant provocation. "What do you think?"

"Tell me."

"Jesus Christ," Jon muttered. "They'd think you're into guys."

Richie locked eyes with him but didn't speak. As the seconds ticked by with no response -- or even movement -- Jon started feeling fidgety again.

"And that's bad," he supplied.

Richie bit his lip, turning on the coy act Jon had witnessed countless times. "So you were protecting my pristine reputation?"

Jon snickered. "Yeah. Something like that."

"Hmm." Richie ran a hand through his hair, fluffing it. "Well, thanks, but ..." He dipped his chin. "I don't believe you."

"Huh?" Jon uttered stupidly.

Richie kept his eyes lowered and began to pick at some strings on the comforter. All of a sudden, Jon realized, the drunken swagger was gone.

"I think you were jealous," Richie murmured.

Jon was poised to answer -- probably something along the lines of _The fuck?_ \-- but Richie continued.

"I think ... you felt like I do sometimes."

Just like that, Jon sensed his body going weak -- because if he'd had any doubts before, now he was sure. He knew exactly where this was heading, and that he should stand up and get the fuck out. He knew. Yet his leaden limbs wouldn't do the right thing.

"Um." Richie glanced over. "You wanna hear the truth, right?"

Jon's stomach flip-flopped. _Leave. Use your fucking legs and leave._ But his body was disconnected from his brain now, so he just watched Richie's fingers play at the Hilton's bedspread, and listened to his stumbling cadence. 

"I, um ... There are times when you get pulled away -- y'know, to do an interview or some photoshoot, or whatever. And it's like ... Well, just that. It feels like you're being pulled away. You know what I mean?"

There was silence, and Jon supposed it was his turn.

"Not sure," he said hoarsely, unable to look up.

Richie sighed, but it wasn't impatient or annoyed. It was more like he was steeling himself.

"OK. I guess I mean ... Sometimes I feel like they're pulling you away, and ... I don't know if it's jealousy, exactly. But it's like ... I wanna pull you back." He chuckled awkwardly. "Does that make sense?"

Jon didn't reply. He couldn't. Part of him felt bad for Richie, trying so hard to say something so ... dangerous. But he felt worse for himself. Because all he wanted was to crawl under the bed and hide, and his body was failing him.

Richie cleared his throat. "OK." He laughed again, but it was painfully forced. "I think it's just ... Sometimes I miss the way it used to be."

Jon finally looked up, taken off guard by the confession. "What?"

Richie flashed an uncertain smile. "The way it was before all this." He made a sweeping gesture around the suite. "When we could hang out like normal people. When sometimes it was just me and you."

Jon dropped his gaze again. "Oh."

The mattress moved and he knew Richie was sliding closer. "I miss it. And when I think about it, I realize you ... You're the person I wanna be around the most."

_Oh God. Fuck._

He closed his eyes as Richie moved in, as if he could pretend it was a dream.

_Rich. What are you doing?_

"And sometimes I think ... I wanna try something."

Fingertips grazed the top of his hand, and Jon's eyes flew open. Richie was so close he was absorbing the warmth pouring from his skin. More than that, he could see through the haze of their mutual intoxication -- to the stark mix of fear and hope in those eyes.

Jon's stomach lurched, like he could be sick. At the same time, he couldn't deny the heat building lower down.

"Rich," he croaked.

And that was all he had. He didn't even know if he meant it as a warning, or a question, or something else altogether.

He shivered as Richie's fingers skimmed his temple, brushing a lock of hair away. "You sure you don't want me to pay out on that bet?"

Jon pulled back and tried to give Richie his best stank eye. "The fuck are you doing?"

Richie dropped his hand. "Are you always this dense in bed?"

Those two simple words, _in bed,_ hit Jon with the full weight of the situation, and he finally found the will to stand up.

"You always this insane?" he demanded, glowering down at Richie even as he almost tripped over his own feet.

Richie shook his head slowly. "I'm told I'm very attentive. And generous."

The little bastard had the gall to lick his lips, in a way that went straight to Jon's cock. And he suddenly regretted his decision to stand -- to be fully exposed like that, just a few feet from Richie's acutely interested gaze.

"Jonny? Have you ever thought about it?"

Jon automatically shook his head, even though the precise question was unspoken. He just knew the answer had to be _no._

_Fuck no._

Richie simply watched him, like he was waiting for a different response, and Jon wanted to slug him. Punch him right in the mouth -- maybe split that fat bottom lip so Richie would be unable to wreak havoc on the world for a while.

"So, never?" Richie prodded, in a tone so skeptical it was infuriating. Jon had to believe that if his legs were fully operational, he would've left by now. 

He had to believe ...

Richie scooted to the edge of the bed and hauled himself to his feet, looking as unsteady as Jon felt. 

"Would it be better if we were standing?" Richie asked, almost shyly, as he crowded Jon's personal space.

The answer, again, was crystal-clear, but Jon said nothing. He just kept his eyes on the tiny hole in Richie's t-shirt, just above his belly button. In his periphery, he could see movement, but he still flinched when a palm cupped his cheek.

"Um ..." Richie let whatever thought he had drift away, and instead stroked his thumb over Jon's cheekbone.

Jon stood there, silent and stunned, though he'd seen it all coming from a mile away. Maybe the shock, he thought, was that he had no impulse to stop it.

Richie leaned in till their lips were almost touching, then pulled back a fraction -- whether it was nerves or a need to recalculate his drunken coordinates, Jon didn't know.

He didn't know much at the moment ... except that his best friend was ridiculously close, closer than they'd ever been without a mic between them. He knew the palm on his cheek was warm. He knew he couldn't breathe. He knew he wasn't moving.

And then Richie's lips were brushing his, and even the mental rumination disappeared. All of his awareness was pinpointed on that single sensation -- the slightly dry yet soft skin moving against him, in a way he'd never experienced before. Bizarre but not unwanted. 

Jon tilted his head to the side, almost on autopilot, and Richie began to gently nibble and tug at his bottom lip. Without thinking, he brought his hands to Richie's arms, grasping them but nothing more -- like he just needed to assert some kind of control.

He felt heavy on his feet, but somehow ungrounded. And maybe Richie sensed it, because his fingertips wandered to the nape of Jon's neck and began to trace slow circles. He probably meant it as a soothing touch, but the contact made Jon's knees wobble -- So he dug his fingers deeper into Richie's flesh. If the bastard was going to knock him off-kilter, he'd have to suffer some kind of consequence.

Richie responded by whimpering against Jon's lips, but it didn't sound like suffering at all. He took another half-step in, so there was no space between them -- no ambiguity about how Richie felt. And for an instant, Jon thought he might suffocate in the heat, the lack of air, the destruction of a boundary he never thought he'd have to defend.

Richie stilled the motion of his hand, curling his fingers into Jon's hair, and Jon couldn't help parting his lips a bit more. Couldn't stifle a soft moan when the tip of Richie's tongue glided along his inner lip. 

Richie pulled back again, just enough that Jon could feel his smile.

"Figure it out yet?" he teased mildly.

And that was all it took -- that hint at normalcy -- to plant Jon dead-center in reality again. In possession of his body again. And he knew exactly what to do.

He brought both hands to Richie's chest and shoved hard, sending him staggering back to the edge of the bed. He watched in satisfaction as Richie stared at him, looking disoriented and bewildered.

"Jonny." Richie raised a hand. "I'm sorry ... I didn't --"

He straightened to his full height as Jon stalked toward him, clearly readying for a fight. When Jon stopped short, their faces inches from apart, he could tell Richie was holding his breath.

_Good._

He pressed a palm to Richie's chest, this time with a light push that landed his butt on the bed. Jon looked down at him and grinned.

"Did we ever say it was _just_ a kiss?"


	6. Six

_"C'mon. Work day's over." _

_He looked over to where Richie was lounging in the shadows, one leg slung over the back of his parents' discarded three-legged sofa. They'd put a brick under the legless corner, but it still wasn't right. So Richie looked a little off, too._

_"C'mon," Richie repeated with a flick of his lighter. "It's Miller time."_

_Jon continued to lazily strum his guitar, because even though he was pretty tapped out, it seemed too early to quit. Mrs. Sambora wasn't even home yet. Plus they'd gotten a late start since Richie's guest du jour had been in no hurry to leave. With the looks she'd thrown Jon -- standing in the kitchen archway, right under the crucifix -- it was obvious that thoughts of a three-way were dancing through her head._

_He'd be lying if the prospect hadn't sparked a physical reaction. But he'd never shied away from an easy lie in the name of self-preservation. _

_He stilled his hands. "Doesn't smell like Miller time."_

_Richie tipped his head back and exhaled. "You know where the beer is." He coughed. "Or you can partake of this finer substance with me."_

_Jon sighed, trying to sound as put-upon as possible. "We need to discuss your productivity levels."_

_Richie giggled. "C'mon, man, take a break. It's good for the creative mind."_

_"Right," Jon drawled, even as he set his guitar aside. _

_"How do you think the greats came up with shit like white rabbits, and yellow submarines, and purple haze?" Richie challenged as Jon shuffled over._

_"I could write about colors, too." He plopped down on the couch and signaled for the joint. "If you'd let me work."_

_Richie graced him with a lopsided grin. "Come and get it. I'm comfortable here."_

_Jon rolled his eyes before shifting onto his knees and leaning over -- trying to ignore the sight of Richie's legs spread wider than the Lincoln Tunnel. _

_"Well, we can't write about purple," he rambled as he retreated to the safety of his sofa corner. "It's been done too many times."_

_He looked at Richie and smiled. "And you obviously can't write about red or green."_

_More giggling. "My one flaw."_

_"Yeah."_

_It took Jon a few seconds to realize he was just sitting there, still smiling. He promptly took a hit._

_"Hey." Richie reeled in his spindly limbs and sat up like a normal person. "You wanna drive into the city tonight? Couple guys I know are playing CBGB."_

_Jon held out the joint. "No hot date?"_

_Richie's fingers brushed his hand as they made the exchange. "Only if you say yes."_

_Jon shook his head, looking toward the boiler. He knew it was stupid to feel embarrassed, because Richie was just messing with him. But he felt it all the same._

_"Don't leave me hangin', Jonny."_

_Jon shrugged a shoulder, feigning indifference. "Yeah, OK." He drew his knees up. "I'm driving, though. If you hook up, I don't wanna be stranded."_

_Richie gave him an exaggerated _who me?_ look, and Jon snorted. "Please. I know you."_

_Richie made a _tsk_ sound but the smile returned. "If you're my date, I won't hafta hook up."_

_Jon fidgeted in his seat, hating the way his body reacted any time Richie made flippant remarks like that. But he didn't hate it enough, apparently, to put his foot down._

_"Well," he aimed for an airy tone, "if I'm driving, that technically makes you _my_ date."_

_"That's cool." Richie lit up again. "I'm good either way."_

_He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, and Jon simply watched, wondering what the fuck that was supposed to mean -- if it meant anything at all. Lately, he'd taken to hunting for hidden messages. Like, if he recorded Richie talking then played it backwards, he might hear instructions from Satan._

_"So, um ..." Jon didn't have anything to say, but if he was talking Richie couldn't._

_"Um, what?"_

_"Um. What time? Tonight."_

_"I dunno -- Come back here around eight? We can grab a slice in the city." There was that easy smile again. "You gotta feed me if you want me to put out."_

_Jon knew he should tell Richie the joke was getting old. But against his better judgment, he kept playing along -- like he always did these days._

_"At that dollar-slice joint by CBGB? That's your price?"_

_Richie locked eyes with him. "Why play hard to get?"_

_Jon felt his throat tightening. The words sounded light, just part of their long-running schtick -- but Richie wasn't smiling, exactly, and he wasn't looking away. He had that glint in his eyes that Jon knew all too well._

_He knew some other things, too ... Richie shouldn't be looking at him that way, and he shouldn't be letting it go on like this. _

_Richie set the joint on the cushion and peered over from under his fringe -- camouflaging his face just enough to make Jon look closer. "So we're on?"_

_Despite it all Jon nodded, like there was no other answer._

_"Sure. Why not?"_

"Jon? You OK?"

He didn't answer right away, because he wasn't sure he understood the question. He looked at Richie's lips, the way he was gnawing on the bottom one.

"Um, yeah. Why?"

"You're not moving."

Jon blinked a couple times, registering the way he was gripping Richie's arm, like before, when they were still standing. He relaxed a bit then slid his hand to Richie's shoulder -- realizing, too late, it probably counted as a caress.

He swallowed. "I was just thinkin'."

"Hmm ... Bad idea."

Jon supposed so. Because in thinking mode, he had to acknowledge that he was lying in a hotel bed, face-to-face with his best friend, hanging on like he had no intention of letting go ... that they'd been sloppily trading kisses, trying to find a rhythm, for God knew how many minutes now. Without any words. Without any remarks on the obvious insanity of it all, as if they'd silently agreed to ignore it.

Until, apparently, Jon had gone into a fugue state.

Richie's hand landed on his hip. Not holding, or groping, just resting like it belonged there. "You wanna stop?"

No, he didn't. But he couldn't seem to say it. So he cupped Richie's cheek and leaned in for another round -- thinking maybe he could regain that mindless plane of existence where nothing made sense but everything felt good.

Then Richie had to smile for some reason.

Jon pulled back slightly. "What?"

"Nothin'. Just ... I'm glad you weren't thinkin' your way outta here."

Jon kept his gaze on Richie's lips. He was strangely fascinated by them now. "Let's shut up, OK?"

He dove back in without waiting for assent. But based on the way those arms closed around him, that wasn't a problem.

He had to admit the taste wasn't great. Even half a pack and five beers later, girls seemed to hold a trace of sweetness. Richie was straight-up weed and Jack. Still, his lips had some kind of supple strength -- a presence that girls' didn't have. 

Or maybe, Jon thought, he was just used to moving on with the chicks, getting to the finish line. Here, he had no idea where that line was. 

A hand slipped to the small of his back, warm against the skin exposed by his rucked-up t-shirt. Just when he was contemplating his counter-move, Richie pressed into him --

"Jesus," Jon hissed as their cocks brushed.

Richie eased away, though his palm splayed more firmly onto Jon's back. "Oops?" 

Jon choked out a laugh, still recovering from the new sensation. "That's ... That's OK."

"You sure?" Richie suddenly sounded more serious, bordering on apologetic. "I mean ..."

Jon sighed impatiently. _Don't make me think._

"The plan was to shut up, right?"

Richie drew his head back. "I was. You're the one cryin' out to the Lord."

Jon instantly bristled at the dig, pushing onto his forearm to give the little bitch the eye. "Get on your back."

The bravado felt good, like he'd restored the old order to their world -- before he actually realized what he was setting in motion. 

_Shit._

Richie lifted up to meet his posture, but otherwise didn't budge.

"Your mouth tastes like garbage," Jon pronounced, because if they volleyed insults like twelve-year-olds, this couldn't be such a big deal.

Richie stuck his bottom lip out and gave him an appraising look. "Your seduction skills need work."

Jon smiled, knowing Richie was with him, that he understood. _This_ they could do.

He made a show of glancing around the bed. "I seem to be doin' all right here."

Richie returned the smile, and the sight helped settle Jon into a decision.

"C'mon, move," he urged, tempering his tone. "Your mouth tastes like garbage, so I wanna explore other options."

Richie's eyes widened, just enough to be discernible, and for a fleeting moment Jon feared he'd miscalculated. Maybe the finish line was closer than he'd thought.

But to his relief, Richie complied, flipping onto his back without another word -- though the hesitancy in his face was hard to miss.

Jon rolled his eyes, to mask any traitorous signs of anxiety. "Don't look at me like I'm gonna pull your teeth."

Richie raised an eyebrow. "What _are_ you gonna pull?"

It was a dumb joke -- and, Jon admitted, a good fucking question. He really had no game plan. 

Richie began to idly tap his fingers on his belly. "Guess you're stumped, huh?"

Jon huffed. "I'm just ..."

There were too many thoughts racing through his head to complete the defense. So he decided to simply take the plunge -- straddling his best friend, like there was nothing in the world wrong with it. Planting his forearms on either side of Richie's head, but being careful to stay on his knees to deny him -- _them_ \-- too much contact. Because he still had no clue where their boundaries were.

Richie smiled up at him, but it was different this time. This time it was dirty as sin, and Jon had to dart his eyes toward the pillow.

"This OK?" he whispered needlessly.

His breath caught a bit as fingertips skirted along his tricep. "What do you think?"

_Don't make me think._

Jon dipped down before he could be pulled down, needing to be the one who made the next move, even if it terrified him. He began to kiss along Richie's jaw, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. And he did, he reminded himself -- Girls had faces, and necks, for Christ's sake.

_Don't think._

As he persevered, nibbling over odd, stubbled terrain, Richie made a soft sound, maybe a sigh. Whether it was good or bad, Jon wasn't sure. But he could feel a hand at the nape of his neck, calloused finger pads pressing ever so gently -- in what seemed like encouragement. He could feel the warmth rising in waves to meet his body, coaxing him to let go and connect. But he still wasn't sure.

And maybe Richie sensed that, because he turned his head and arched into the pillow, wordlessly seeking the attention he wanted. Jon spared a second to smile at the wantonness of it all, but then found himself giving in, mouthing a path down the side of Richie's neck. Taking tentative tastes at first, pausing at points just to lay his lips against the roasting-hot skin and pull a breath in.

Recording the way Richie's body tensed then released, tensed then released -- subtly reacting to every move he made.

He'd retained enough wits to notice the flavors were evolving, and definitely better than a minute ago, or at least more complex. The tang of smoke and alcohol clung to Richie's skin, but the undertones were ... not good or bad, really. Just new. 

And for all the weirdness, there was the familiar, too ... like the scents of aggressively citrus soap and drug-store cologne, because despite the change in their bank accounts, Richie had yet to upgrade his tastes.

Jon smiled again then skimmed his lips over Richie's collarbone, to the hollow of his throat -- feeling a flinch in response. He raised his head, just a bit, because he didn't really want to see those eyes.

"Ticklish?" he teased.

"Not sure that's the word." Richie's palm found his low back again. "Jonny." There was the slightest tremor in his voice. "C'mere."

Jon wavered for a moment before bringing one knee between Richie's legs and allowing the full weight of his body to drop -- strategically angled so the contact wasn't too intense. Even so, Richie groaned lowly as they met, and Jon felt his own body retract, for a split-second, before he willed himself to relax.

If Richie noticed the conflict, he didn't show it. He simply slipped his other hand to the back of Jon's head and then they were kissing again. That hadn't been his plan, but for once he wasn't up for arguing.

Maybe because suddenly the tastes didn't matter so much, as if he were finally getting below the surface of them. Bit by bit, he felt himself drawn into other sensations ... like that slick tongue moving against his, the heat from Richie's body not just touching but permeating his own. The perspiration breaking out across his back, making him acutely aware of being trapped in his own clothes.

The visceral part-thrill, part-fear of being on the edge of either going too far or not far enough.

Richie, being him, chose that moment to pull away, abruptly shoving him back into cold reality.

_God. Don't stop._

"Hey." Richie's voice was gruff at his ear. "We're wearin' way too many clothes."

Jon sighed in relief, too turned on to be self-conscious. "You read my mind."

"That's your _mind_ I feel on my thigh?"

Jon exhaled a laugh. "Yeah. It's huge, isn't it?"

"Nah. Hard as a rock, though."

"Shut it," Jon commanded as he lifted up, whisking his t-shirt over his head before any doubts could take hold.

It did occur to him, as he set to work on his jeans, that his determination -- his shamelessness -- wouldn't last. There'd be judgment later. For now, though, the reckoning seemed too distant to care about. For now, he could just acknowledge, to himself, that he felt the same as Richie.

Tonight he'd ended up with the person he wanted most.

There'd be time enough later to process exactly how he'd gotten to that place. For now, it seemed more important to focus on his own trembling hands -- though, as he watched the movements in his periphery, he had to wonder if Richie's hands were trembling, too.

He got an answer, in a way, when Richie hastily dove onto his side on the bed, knees pulled up, obscuring his nakedness as he smiled sheepishly at Jon.

"You're kinda slow."

Jon chuckled then angled away to slide his jeans and underwear off. "Oh, you want _fast?_" he ribbed, forcing a light tone.

"No."

It was one little word, but Jon's stomach fluttered at the softness, the honesty in it. He hesitated briefly before turning and stretching onto his side in one swift motion -- like ripping off the proverbial Band-Aid.

And then he froze, eyes trained on Richie's -- because what, exactly, were they going to do now?

Richie bit his lip then openly ran his eyes down the length of Jon's body. Jon valiantly suppressed a desire to cover up, but he didn't dare take in the view from his side, out of fear it would freak him out. Somehow the pausing and looking was more intimidating than action.

He brought a hand to Richie's cheek. "What do you want?"

"Um." Richie chuckled awkwardly, finally showing a crack in his confidence. "I dunno." He licked his lips. "Can I touch you?"

Jon nodded, because hell yeah. Yet he still inhaled sharply, like it was a surprise, when Richie's fingertips swept over his navel then dipped into his pubic hair.

"OK?" Richie murmured, massaging small circles.

Jon inched closer and threaded his fingers into Richie's hair, hoping that sufficed. A beat later, he gasped when a warm hand wrapped around him, firmly.

"I keep surprising you, huh?" Richie asked, though not in a mocking way. It sounded more like he was still seeking permission.

"Uh, yeah -- _Ahh._" Jon squirmed as a roughened thumb glided over his tip then circled around the head, spreading the bit of fluid there.

He clenched a fistful of Richie's hair, hauling him in for a kiss -- probably to shut both of them up. But within a few seconds, Richie was angling away.

_No. Don't talk._

"Hey." Richie's voice sounded different, gravelly. "I got some ... y'know, to make it ..." He sighed. "You know how it works."

Jon was pretty sure he still did. Yet when Richie rolled over and left him there, he felt weirdly exposed. Weirdly passive. He shouldn't just be lying there, waiting, like a fucking virgin.

_Fuck._

He did the only thing he could think of and sat up, scooting toward the nightstand like he was going to call room service. He might've laughed at the absurdity if he weren't confronted with the sight of Richie coming back -- chest and belly flushed, clearly aroused, tube in hand. His own cock twitched, and he automatically drew his legs in ... because, apparently, well-learned shames didn't get buried so easily.

_Fuck._

"Um." Richie paused at the foot of the bed. "You makin' a break for it?"

Jon glanced at the nightstand and spied the forgotten glass of water. He grabbed it. "Thirsty."

"Oh." Richie smiled tentatively, watching Jon stall with the water, before crawling partway up the bed.

He tossed the tube onto the sheets, and Jon eyed it as he put the glass down. "Astroglide." His voice only cracked a little. "Quality brand."

Richie nodded. "Only the best for my dick." His peered at Jon with a twinkle in his eye. "That's you."

Jon dipped his chin and smiled -- grateful, again, that they both preferred schoolyard humor to admitting fear.

Richie inched closer. "Seriously, you have somewhere to be?"

Jon looked up quickly. "No, I'm ..." He rolled his eyes then sprawled himself out on his back. "Happy?"

Richie's face came into his line of vision, shadowed in the lamplight and partly hidden by his shaggy mane. But the spark in his eyes, his only answer, was clear.

Hair tickled Jon's cheeks before their lips met again -- this time Richie being the one to withhold contact. It wouldn't be long, though, Jon knew. Richie was Richie, even though this particular version was taking some getting used to.

Jon decided he could live with that, if it involved the feeling of those pliant lips moving along his jawline to the curve of his neck. And touching the surprisingly soft skin of Richie's low back ... which he supposed he'd haphazardly touched before, but ... Touching was different from exploring.

His hands slid higher, by necessity, as Richie shifted to lay light open-mouthed kisses at the base of throat and down the center line of his chest ... more warm breath than pressure. So when he suddenly latched onto a nipple, Jon couldn't swallow a yelp -- couldn't resist bringing both hands to the sides of Richie's head, to exert some semblance of control.

But it was only a semblance, he realized, because his body's base instincts were taking over. He could only hang on and arch into the contact as Richie took the nub between his teeth then sucked hard to ease the sting. He could only wrap his fingers tighter around that hair and guide the attention to where it wanted it next.

He could only pant as that hot mouth gradually dragged downward, nuzzling his navel, coming so close ... so dangerously close.

"Rich," he gasped, not really meaning to -- or knowing why.

But Richie must've divined some reason, because he quickly lifted up and tugged Jon till he was lying on his side. There was a click, and in his half-trance it took a moment to realize what it was. Not that it mattered ... All that mattered was that hand finding him again, slick but firm. All he could feel -- could care about -- was the way it pulled and twisted perfectly, like this wasn't new at all. Like it wasn't a game or a lost bet at all.

Like Richie simply knew exactly what he needed and wanted to give it to him.

"_Fuck._"

"OK?"

The question was soft, whispered, and it made Jon open his eyes. He hadn't even realized they'd been shut tight -- that he wasn't allowing himself to look. To see.

"Yeah."

He was already climbing on top of Richie as he said it, already pushing him onto his back. And then reaching to line up their cocks. He didn't strictly know what he was doing, but he knew what felt good. 

He knew. And still, that moment the sensation hit -- the unspeakable hotness of trailing his tip over his best friend's hard cock -- it almost took his breath away.

Maybe because his eyes were open now, and it wasn't just the animal pleasure anymore. Maybe, partly, it was the sight of Richie pressing his head back into the pillow, of his lips parting silently. And then the sound of him moaning. Maybe it was the power of being the reason for it all.

Whatever it was, he could hardly breathe, but he didn't care. He simply let his body shudder as he rolled over Richie's tip then down the underside -- pulling a groan that bounced off the walls.

An instant later Richie's hands swept down his flanks to cup his ass, in a clear signal to dispense with the maddening strokes.

_You got it, baby._

Again, he succumbed to full contact. But this time without hesitancy, without words to build a story around the reality, without anything. They just moved, pulsed against each other, grappled to get their hands where they wanted, to take the lead.

And it was sloppy, and frustrating, and not enough. And the hottest thing Jon had experienced in a very long time.

"Rich," he grunted, sensing the pull and heat deep behind his navel.

Richie merely wrapped a calf around his and dug his finger pads into the flesh under his hands. Jon knew he was telling him it was OK. He brought his lips to Richie's shoulder and darted his tongue out to take a taste. He couldn't say why, and he couldn't say what the taste was. It didn't matter anymore.

Because he was coming, and his best friend was holding him, running a hand up and down his back, absorbing him. Like this was how the night was supposed to end.

Like this was where they'd been heading all along ...


	7. Chapter 7

_"You goin' home with her?"_

_Jon leaned against the bar, trying to look casual, like he didn't give a shit about being abandoned. Or not abandoned, really. He had his car, and he knew the way back to Jersey. But if Richie hooked up, that meant _he'd_ have to -- because like fuck was he sitting in the Lincoln Tunnel alone, messing with the tape deck when that was Richie's job._

_Richie wrinkled his nose then leaned in, close to Jon's ear. "Nah, man. She's never heard of Muddy Waters."_

_Jon shifted to put some distance between them then took a swig from his bottle. "Right. You can't bring that kinda girl home to meet your mamma."_

_Richie grinned. "Exactly."_

_Jon glanced toward the stage, to where he'd last seen her huddled with her girlfriends. He could have any one of the friends, he knew. Or probably any of the alcohol-addled chicks who'd accidentally bumped into him, tits first, in the past hour. But he couldn't work up the interest._

_He drained the rest of his beer. "Seriously, man, she keeps lookin' over. You better commit or hide."_

_Richie blew out a breath, ruffling his bangs. "Let's get outta here."_

_Jon's eyebrows shot up. He couldn't recall Richie ever wanting to evade a chick that hot, no matter how shallow her knowledge of music history._

_"And go where?"_

_Richie shrugged a shoulder. "I dunno. Home?"_

_Jon looked at his watch -- not even one a.m. What the fuck?_

_"I drove your ass all the way to the city, and you wanna go home?"_

_It occurred to him that arguing made no sense -- that he was defeating his self-interests. But somehow, he was feeling rattled by the idea that neither of them was into chasing tail tonight._

_Richie tossed back the last of his bourbon. "So what?" He set the glass on the bar. "We heard some decent music, ate some decent pizza. Not a bad Thursday night."_

_"Yeah, but ..." Jon trailed off, not sure where he was going. "It's just ... I thought you were into her is all."_

_Richie signaled to the bartender, avoiding Jon's gaze. "Well, I'm not. And the beer in my parents' fridge is free."_

_Jon blinked. "You wanna hang out with your parents?"_

_Richie rolled his eyes and leaned in again. "They ain't gonna be up watchin' 'I Love Lucy.' We'll have free reign. Beer, TV ... Well, beer and TV."_

_Richie stepped back and looked at him expectantly, but Jon didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure why this was such a big deal in his head, but ... They were in the city, and drunk girls were sweating them, and it just seemed one of them, at least, should get lucky._

_That was normal. That was how things worked._

_On the other hand ... Right now, the prospect of listening to some stranger blather about her job at the salon, or the dentist office, seemed a high price to pay for getting off._

_Or worse, having her ask, "Are you in baaand?" and having to explain that yes, they'd released two albums and were pretty huge in Japan. Then dealing with her vapid stare._

_Jon sighed. "Fine," he amped up the bitchiness. "But you're payin' for the gas I wasted carting your ass all over creation."_

_Richie's lips quirked toward an odd half-smile. "No problem."_

_Jon felt it again, the inexplicable twist in his gut. And he was out of alcohol to quash it._

_"All that trouble and I ain't even gettin' any action," he grumbled, just to put his displeasure on record. Just to pretend he'd prefer something else._

_Richie bit his lip, a twinkle lighting his eyes. He took a half-step in and somehow Jon didn't flinch, even as those lips nearly brushed his cheek. "Don't be so sure."_

It wasn't like he hadn't anticipated this. If you slept with someone -- in the literal sense -- you also had to wake up somewhere near them. But the feat of actually turning his head and seeing ... It all seemed beyond what his mind could hold.

The knowledge of what they'd done was still in his body. He could feel the tingle of it in his skin, its weight in his limbs, the debauchery in his belly. The scents and the warmth were still wrapped around him.

He wasn't sure he could handle the visual, too.

But then, even lying on his side with eyes closed, he couldn't stay in the dark. The sunlight streaming into the room from the carelessly bare window was penetrating his eyelids. And then there were the flashes ... black eyes staring into his, lips parting to receive him, his own trembling fingers tracing a cheekbone.

_Fuck._

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, but the light was still getting through. And then the mattress shifted, followed by a sigh.

_Fuuuck._

Slowly, he blinked his eyes open then peered over his shoulder. Richie was on his back, head angled toward him -- a few folds of the sheet mercifully draped over his middle. 

_OK._

It wasn't that bad. It was just Richie as Jon had seen him a thousand times. The bastard almost always slept naked, no matter what the circumstances. So this wasn't so weird ...

Jon gingerly turned onto his right side so he could study Richie's face. Not because he wanted to drink in the sight of that dopey-ass mug or anything -- but strictly for observation purposes.

Like, how the hell could he look so peaceful? As if he hadn't just bumped uglies with his male best friend. How could he be sporting that hint of a smile -- like a slightly more masculine Mona Lisa?

How could he be breathing so softly and steadily, like he hadn't just violated the rule of God and general straight male-ness? How could he be fucking _breathing_ like that?

It was enough to piss Jon off. Enough to make him want to wake the sonuvabitch up.

He cleared his throat. "Hey."

Nothing.

"Hey."

More breathing.

Jon cleared his throat again. "Rich."

Richie did some weird thing with his mouth, kind of like chewing, but nothing more.

Jon sighed. "Jesus Christ."

He realized he was going to have to touch Richie, but didn't want it to come off as romantic. So he kicked him.

"Hey." 

Richie grimaced and made a whiny sound. That was all.

"For fuck's sake."

Jon reached out and poked his shoulder. "Hey."

That won a little growl and a lazy swat at the air between them. Jon had to smile. But it didn't deter him from his mission.

He wriggled closer to Richie, until their lips were nearly touching.

"_Hey!_"

Richie's eyes flew open as his whole body jerked awake. "The fuck?"

Jon covertly pushed back to his side of the bed. "You up?"

Richie blinked a couple times then squinted, like he was trying to make out the vision in front of him. 

_Contacts,_ Jon realized. The idiot had forgotten to take them out and now they were dried up.

"It's me," he supplied helpfully. "Jon Bon Jovi."

"Yeah," Richie croaked. "I've heard of you."

He groggily pushed up onto a forearm then turned toward the nightstand, reaching for the trusty water glass and downing its remains.

"Ugh," Richie groaned before face-planting into his pillow. He turned his head just enough to glare at Jon with one eye -- which was pretty impressive.

"Why?"

Jon furrowed his brow. "Why what?"

"Why did you just scream in my face?"

Jon lifted up and propped his head on his hand. "I didn't scream, you drama queen."

Richie continued his one-eyed glower until Jon gave in. "I'm awake," he said, like that explained it all.

"Yeah?" Richie challenged.

Jon rolled his eyes. "Well. I'm awake, and ..."

_For Christ's sake._

"I'm awake, and I didn't wanna just leave." His stomach began to flutter, and it was fucking annoying. "That would be rude."

Richie surveyed him for another moment then flipped onto his back. "You don't hafta leave," he murmured.

Jon's heartbeat instantly quickened. He hadn't considered _staying._ He didn't even know what that meant. Scrambled eggs and Saturday morning cartoons? Or ... round two?

"Well." He searched for a casual response that didn't seem too asshole-ish. "I mean, it's not my room. So ..."

Richie rubbed at his eyes. "So what?" He dropped his hand to the mattress and kept addressing the ceiling. "There's a shower." He flapped his hand toward the nightstand on Jon's side. "You can call for room service. Whatever."

Jon swallowed. He knew Richie's luxury suite came with a shower and a phone. But using them would seem like he was making himself at home -- as if he were one of those special, delusional types of chick who thought sex meant the beginning of a relationship.

"Um," he stalled. "Well, my stuff is in my room." He sat up against the headboard, so he'd have the vantage point of looking down at Richie. "And I don't wanna smell like your coconut body wash or whatever that shit is."

Richie turned his head, appearing genuinely offended. "It's vanilla bean and almond. And it's fucking delicious."

"You eat it?" Jon asked automatically, before understanding.

Richie smiled slyly. "No, dumbass. I'm _told._" The smile changed, softening at the edges. "Don't you remember?"

A shiver rolled through Jon's body -- more from the look on Richie's face than the words. "Sorry," he lied breezily. "All I remember is weed and whiskey, man."

He drew his knees up and went on, just to be sure his lack of sentimentality was loud and clear. "I think your chicks might be laying it on kinda thick. If you're fishin' for compliments, it ain't gonna work."

Richie turned away again, but Jon could see the remnants of his smile still in place. "No kidding. I _have_ known you for a while."

It was just a flip remark, but Jon felt it hit unexpectedly. On one hand, good -- Their status-quo was intact, at least officially. On the other hand, what the fuck was that supposed to mean?

He decided to ignore it, though, since they didn't exactly need to dredge up a murky issue to argue. There was enough obvious shit to deal with.

Jon peered at the windows, even though there was nothing to see. "So you remember? All of it, I mean."

When he got no response, he turned to find Richie gaping.

"Uh, yeah." Richie made a vague gesture between them. "And if I didn't, this is a pretty good clue."

Jon dipped his chin so he didn't have to see the disbelief. He knew it was a stupid question, but sometimes he just needed things said.

"Do _you_ remember? Everything?"

Jon snapped his head up. "Of course."

They had an uneasy stare-down before Richie sought out the water glass again, obviously forgetting it was empty. Seeing that, he paused for a moment then nabbed something else -- which turned out to be the Astroglide.

Jon's heart rate spiked again. Did he want to ...?

But Richie merely lay back, narrowing his eyes to read the label. "Water, glycerin, poly ... quater ... quater-something --"

Jon huffed in annoyance -- and maybe, if he were honest, a trace of disappointment. "What are you doing?"

"I'm curious. Never read the ingredients before."

Jon just stared. 

Richie put the tube on his belly and looked over earnestly. "Do you know where the name Astroglide comes from?"

Jon kept staring.

"A NASA scientist invented it."

Jon blinked. "OK."

Richie smiled a little. "Do you think NASA would be scandalized by us?"

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. He wasn't up for the labyrinth of Richie's thought processes.

"So." Richie plopped the lube onto the bed between them. "We both remember."

Jon eyed the Astroglide. "Yeah."

"Are you freaking out?"

Jon gnawed on his lip, considering. He couldn't say he was comfortable, but he was surprised by the fact he hadn't cut and run when he had the chance. That, of all things, he'd chosen to rouse Richie from the dead so they could ... Talk? Not talk? He wasn't sure. 

"Um." He scratched at his hair. "Do I look like I'm freaking?"

Richie bobbed his head. "Well, you're all wound up. You're on the edge of the bed like you're gonna spring. It's kinda weird."

Jon folded his arms defensively. "How? I'm just sittin' here."

Richie looked poised to argue, but then simply shrugged. "'Kay."

They both looked at the lube.

"I mean ..." Jon sat up a little taller. "What am I supposed to do? Fucking cuddle with you?"

The words were out before he could think better of them. And to his mild horror, Richie made no reply -- refused to even look at him.

_Jesus Christ._

"For real?"

Richie rolled his eyes. "I didn't say that."

"I know you didn't _say_ it. But you're bitching about how I'm sitting."

"I ain't bitching. It was an observation."

"Pretty bitchy observation."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Richie motioned toward the phone again. "Order some pancakes and relax."

Jon bridled at the command. "You want pancakes? Order them yourself."

"Ugh." Richie flung a forearm over his eyes. "Are you always such a pain in the ass the morning after?"

Jon balked, weirdly confounded by the question. The truth was, there hadn't been any mornings-after for a while. He'd gotten used to having the girls politely escorted out, to avoid those messy false impressions. Most chicks were savvy enough to know they weren't auditioning for the role of Mrs. Bongiovi -- but Jon had learned he could never be too careful. 

His current bedmate, on the other hand, had yet to absorb that lesson.

Richie peeked at him from under his elbow. "Guess that's my answer."

Jon groaned then slid over, just to shut the brat up. "Happy?" 

Richie kept his eyes covered, but his lips twitched enough to give him away. "Almost."

Jon exhaled heavily, fluttering his lips. "Christ almighty." He shoved Richie's arm away from his face then leaned down to lay one on him.

He pulled away just as abruptly, before he could get wrapped up -- before the true depth of his interest became apparent through the bedsheet. 

"There."

Richie raised an eyebrow. "What kind of drive-by kiss was that?"

Jon matched his surly expression. "I got news for you. You do _not_ taste like a vanilla seed."

A hand landed on his, and it was only then that Jon realized his palm was still on Richie's belly. "Vanilla _bean,_ you idiot."

Jon felt a smile threatening, and it seemed like a good time to return to his previous perch. But his limbs were suddenly lazy.

"Seed, bean. All I know is, it's nasty."

Richie's fingertips glided over his inner wrist, and he had to bite his lip at the sensation. 

"I can brush my teeth," Richie offered. "How do you feel about cinna-mint?"

Jon glanced away, toward the fake potted fern by the window. "You're really desperate for a kiss, aren't you?"

Fingertips trailed over the top of his hand. "Yeah."

Jon looked down, taken off-guard by the open admission.

Richie smiled coyly. "I'm a morning-after kinda guy."

Jon found himself at a loss. The other truth was, he'd been missing this -- waking up with someone he didn't want to ditch. It was just his dumb luck that person happened to be Richie.

_What the actual fuck?_

Richie's smile faltered, just barely, but it was enough to knock Jon out of his stupor. He'd have to confront the emotional fallout later.

"Fine," he grumbled before taking the plunge again.

This time he lingered long enough to feel Richie's hand find the nape of his neck. To swipe his tongue over that soft bottom lip. To take and allow a few tastes, imperfect as they were. To slide his palm higher until he could feel Richie's heart pounding.

When he broke the kiss, just for need of air, he dropped his head to Richie's shoulder but kept his hand where it was. 

"Happy?" he repeated, though the change in his voice was clear.

Richie's fingers moved in a slow circle at the back of his head. "Yeah."

_"'What have you done for me lately? Ooh-ooh-ooh-yeah.'"_

_"So." Jon plunked his beer can on the coffee table. "Is Janet your favorite Jackson now?"_

_"At the moment," Richie replied with a little shoulder shimmy. He turned toward Jon to belt out the next line. "'You seem to think you're God's gift to this earth. I'm tellin' you no way.'"_

_Jon gave him the eye -- or the best one he could in the dark living room, lit only by the glow of MTV. _

_"You know all the words?"_

_Richie smiled. "Just the good ones."_

_"Seriously?" _

_Richie angled to face him fully, crossing his legs on the couch. "I think you can learn from any genre of music."_

_"Any?" Jon questioned skeptically. "Not so sure about that."_

_Richie leaned his elbows onto his knees. "C'mon. This song is catchy as fuck. We need something like this, from the guy's point of view."_

_Jon screwed up his face. "I ain't copying Janet Jackson."_

_Richie sighed dramatically. "I just mean we need somethin' that's less 'Oh, baby, my heart's broken,' and more like, 'Wow, that was one fucked-up situation.'"_

_Jon looked toward the TV screen, where Janet and her backup dancers were doing their thing. He understood the point -- They'd both taken some hits in their recent relationships and were a little gun-shy of late. Maybe Richie even more so than him, if tonight had been any indication._

_"OK," Jon relented, too buzzed and tired to argue anyway. "We can work on something like that."_

_The light around them dimmed as the video ended. _

_"But it can't be moody and depressing," Richie insisted, wagging a finger at him. "It has to be hooky as hell."_

_Jon nodded. "Fine. A catchy little ditty about a crazy-ass bitch."_

_Richie giggled like a doofus. "Right on."_

_Jon couldn't resist joining him. The sound was always more infectious when he had a few drinks in him. Or ten._

_A beat later, another sound caught his attention -- a familiar, dirge-like keyboard line. Sure enough, he looked to the screen to see fucking Mikhail Baryshnikov twirling._

_"Ugh. Again with this shit?"_

_Richie's giggling escalated into a cackle before he nabbed one of their empty beer cans, holding it up like a microphone._

_"'Say you, say me. Say it for always. That's the way it should be.'"_

_Jon felt a ridiculous swoop in his belly as Richie smiled at him._

_"God, shut up, you weirdo."_

_Richie tilted his head, getting more intimate with the beer can. "'Say you, say me. Say it together. Naturally.'"_

_Jon grabbed a pillow and whacked Richie on the side of his head. "Stop. I can't stand this fucking song."_

_Richie pouted cartoonishly. "What? You're my Mikhail Baryshnikov."_

_Jon looked away, toward the mess on the coffee table -- agitated with himself for being embarrassed over something so stupid._

_"Well, you're no Gregory Hines."_

_Richie made an indignant sound. "Are you sayin' I can't tap-dance?"_

_Despite himself, Jon smiled. "Yeah." He side-eyed Richie. "That's what I'm saying."_

_"Well ..." Jon's whole body tensed as Richie inexplicably leaned over him to put the beer can on the side table. "I could prove you wrong," he went on, plopping onto his ass again. "But my tap shoes are upstairs, and I'm tired."_

_Jon looked down at his own sock-clad feet. "Some other time then."_

_There was no response, and Jon was about to speak again -- maybe bring up the notion of going home -- when the pillow he'd used to assault Richie suddenly landed on his lap. Before he had a chance to question it, Richie was sprawling himself out and dropping his gigantic head onto the pillow._

_Jon automatically jerked his legs._

_"Ow," Richie objected._

_"The fuck are you doing?" Jon demanded, more than a little self-conscious about the unsubtle response in his lower body._

_Luckily, Richie at least had the decency to be facing away._

_"I just told you," he mumbled. "I'm tired."_

_Jon used his fingertips to shove lightly at Richie's head. "I ain't your pillow. Go to bed."_

_"In a minute."_

_"Unh-uh. I gotta take off."_

_"Why?"_

_"What do you mean, why?"_

_Richie rubbed at his nose. "You're just gonna come back tomorrow anyway."_

_Jon sighed, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with the downward direction of his blood flow. While Lionel Richie serenaded them in the background._

_"I do need to sleep at some point. C'mon -- Shove off."_

_He realized he had the upper hand in their positioning. He could force Richie off of him. He just didn't have the will ... not after so many beers._

_"Sleep here," Richie murmured._

_Jon shifted, trying to maneuver that giant cranium toward his knees. "With your stupid head there?"_

_Richie fidgeted, stealthily maintaining his claimed spot. "Sleep in my room."_

_Jon froze. Richie couldn't be suggesting ..._

_"I'll sleep here," Richie added through a yawn._

_Jon felt himself relax slightly. "Um, that's ... Nah, man. I'll just go home."_

_He waited for Richie to lift up, but it seemed he only burrowed in a bit more._

_"Suit yourself." Another yawn. "But you're pretty tanked. My mom'll be pissed I let you drive home."_

_Jon just sat there dumbly, wondering. Wondering why he was so befuddled by a simple invitation to crash. Wondering why his body was so confused. Wondering whether Richie was deliberately pushing his buttons, or just innocently falling victim to his own inebriation._

_He squeezed his eyes shut, on the chance that would shut down his brain._

_"Well?" Richie eventually prompted._

_Jon opened his eyes and there was Richie, craning his neck to look up at him._

_"Um." Jon felt his resistance waning. He really had tossed back a lot of alcohol. "Um ... Yeah. OK, fine."_

_Richie turned his cheek to the pillow again. "'Kay."_

_Jon bounced his heels up and down a few times -- His legs were starting to fall asleep. But Richie stayed put._

_"You gonna move or what?" Jon asked._

_"In a minute."_

_Jon pressed his lips together and glanced at the TV. It was just a commercial, but Richie was apparently entranced._

_"You're fucking annoying, you know that?" He said it softly, though, since Richie's parents were asleep right above them._

_"Hmm. Just gimme a minute."_

_Jon knew he should just stand up and let Richie land in a heap on the floor. But ... He was being saved the drive home. And Mrs. Sambora would make him pancakes in the morning. So whatever._

_He caught a lock of Richie's hair and tugged. "One minute."_

_"Ow." Richie reached back to take hold of his hand._

_Jon instantly loosened his grasp, but it took a moment for Richie to release his -- fingers brushing over Jon's before his hand dropped to his hip._

_The feeling of the contact stayed in Jon's skin, and it seemed weird -- that even with a head nearly buried in his crotch, the innocent connection would leave an imprint. He sank a little deeper into the couch, watching Richie move along with him._

_"One minute," he repeated._

_Richie's hand found his knee, picking lightly at the denim before slipping away. "Uh-huh."_

_Jon closed his eyes once more, satisfied they had an understanding. Anyway, he was tired. And he had no place else to be._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this pandemic thing has kept me pretty busy :) Sorry for the long wait.

It had been three days. Or not quite ... maybe seventy hours. Not that he was counting the minutes or some shit. It was just weird -- really weird that the last time he was alone with Richie they'd been in bed, naked and eating waffles.

He had no idea what possessed them to order waffles. Pancakes? Yes. French toast? Hell yes. Waffles? Fucking why?

He was well aware that wasn't the weirdest thing they'd done. And he was acutely aware they hadn't talked about any of those weird things -- through some sort of mutual, unspoken agreement to avoid each other.

On the first day, it had been a relief, to get some distance from the intensity of what they'd done. But it wasn't anymore. Now it was putting him on edge, making him wonder when they'd go back to normal -- or if they'd lost "normal" forever.

Because normal was talking about bad room-service decisions, and football, and the merits of Marshalls versus Fenders. And he missed it. But he sure as fuck wasn't going to be the one to say it, like some chick who mistook a fuck for a first date.

Richie had started this whole thing --

Alec's face suddenly appeared over the backrest. "Hey."

_Fuck._

Jon pointed at his headphones, even though nothing was playing. He'd chosen rumination as his soundtrack for this particularly dreary stretch of I-20. The headphones were merely a ploy to warn off unwelcome bass players.

But Alec simply reached toward Jon's head.

"What?" Jon grouched, swatting at the encroaching paws.

"I just wanna ask ya something," Alec squawked. "Be a normal human being."

Jon rolled his eyes but gave in, hooking the headphones behind his neck. "OK, go."

Alec propped his hands on the backrest and settled his chin there. "I just remembered -- You and Rich decide on the grand prize?"

Jon's stomach did a little flip-flop. It was ridiculous, he knew. But he couldn't help it ... For the past three days, he hadn't been able to help it. Every time one of the guys looked at him funny -- which was fucking constantly, it turned out -- the same weight of dread fell over him.

_They know._

It didn't matter how illogical it was -- because how could anyone _know?_ \-- His paranoia was still winning the war against his logic.

_Guess that's what happens when you hump your guitarist._

Alec narrowed his eyes. "The hair contest."

Jon blew out a breath. "Yeah, I know. Why you askin'?"

"What's got you so jumpy?" Alec straightened up. "I'm just making some travel conversation. Like when you're on a plane next to a stranger, and your shoulders are touching and you're like, 'Well, this is fucking awkward.' So you say, 'You goin' on vacation?' or some shit."

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose while Al rattled on. "Anyway, I have a vested interest in this, seeing as I was there when the bet went down. I held the Vavoom in my own hands --"

Jon dropped his hand to his lap. "I'm thinkin' there won't be a grand prize."

Alec's eyebrows shot up. "You're shittin' me." And then a smile, knowing and annoying, slowly spread across his face. "It's 'cause you're losing, isn't it?"

"I'm not," Jon snapped, feeling weirdly offended. "I'm ahead two-to-one."

Al eyed him skeptically. "Not by my count."

Jon shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with having to confess. "Rich forfeited one to me." He held up a hand as Alec's mouth fell open, drama-queen style. "Don't ask."

"What's that about?" Alec was obviously in no mood to obey orders. "I mean, he threw this last one --"

Jon shushed him.

"And now you're telling me he _gave up_ a clear win?" Al scanned the bus like he'd been dropped into an alternate universe. "Where is he? I need a word."

Jon groaned. "_No._ I'm not up for this shit."

Alec flashed a smile before looking over his shoulder. "Hey, Rich! Get over here."

_Fuck._

Jon peeked around the seats toward the front rows, where Richie was stationed. That alone had been weirding him out, because Richie never parked up there. He was a backseat kinda guy, in all respects.

As Richie glanced back, he instantly homed in on Jon's face, and Jon retreated to his fox hole.

_Fuck._

It was like he was thirteen again and scoping out Angela Romano from behind his locker door, after she'd managed to sprout tits over the summer ...

Of course, he'd been feeling like a clueless teenager for three solid days now. Because he and Richie were taking strange arcs to avoid each other, but every time they _were_ within arm's reach, Jon felt it ... The tingle in his skin. The half-hope that something would happen. His own teetering on the verge of _making_ something happen. And then ducking behind the nearest cover and cursing himself for it.

The real kicker was, he hadn't even been drunk for most of those encounters. And he definitely wasn't drunk now. He couldn't blame his feelings on whiskey-marinated brain cells and post-gig hormones. He was on a bus lurching down I-20, with a bunch of dudes who smelled like pizza and feet. It was the least sexy place on earth --

"What's up?" 

Richie's eyes were on Al, but he'd pulled up right next to Jon, so they were face-to-crotch -- the little bitch. Jon reached for the _Metal Edge_ on the seat beside him, just to have some occupation for his eyes while Alec talked.

"I was having a pleasant chat with Jonny here. And I've learned that you, my friend, are losing the hair tournament."

Richie's eyes ping-ponged between them. "Well ... Technically, yeah."

Al tossed his hands up. "How did this happen? You had the Vavoom. Like a Jedi with the light saber thing."

Richie shook his head. "I can't explain myself, man."

Alec leaned over and tapped Richie's temple with his index finger. "You lost your focus." He jabbed the finger at Jon. "You gotta keep your focus with this one."

Richie looked poised to defend himself, but the bitch train wasn't stopping. "So now," Al declared dramatically, "you got a shot at redemption. I say, one more round, winner take all."

He sliced his hand through the air for punctuation, then grinned.

Jon regarded him warily and, in his periphery, could tell Richie was doing the same. Mercifully, when he and Richie had slipped out of the party the other night, Alec had been in the bathroom getting head from a groupie. But Jon knew he was still fixated on the whole "kissing a guy" thing, from the way he'd gotten on Richie's case -- demanding a recap of the outcome with the random dude.

Richie crossed his arms. "You're really invested in this."

Al gave him a whack on the shoulder. "Fuck me, that is exactly the word I just used. _Invested._"

"No, it's not," Jon piped up, because he never could resist correcting a wrong. "You said you had a _vested_ interest."

Al nodded, looking impressed. "So you were listening." He returned his attention to Richie. "OK, how does this thing end? Loser spends the day at a gay bath house?"

Jon darted his eyes back to the magazine as Richie chuckled. "Um." He hesitated, sounding uncharacteristically thrown. Jon refused to acknowledge him, even when he felt that gaze on him. 

"Um," Richie repeated. "I think for the last round, we shouldn't punish the loser, y'know? Just reward the winner."

Jon looked up, meeting Richie's eyes for the first time. "That's how it should be," Richie affirmed, with a small unreadable smile.

Jon inspected his face, wondering what was circling through that mind. Most people, he'd come to learn, didn't realize how reckless Richie could be -- maybe because he was always so busy doing his _nice_ schtick. But Jon knew. He knew that Richie's thoughts could fan out in twenty directions at once, with none of them being fully followed through ... that he could act on any one of them without ever considering the consequences. 

Jon wasn't like that.

"Definitely," Alec agreed. "That's how to close a hair contest with class." He clapped his hands together. "How about this? Loser has to get two hot girls to do each other, and the winner gets to watch."

Jon sighed and rubbed at his eyes. "Thanks, Al. We'll figure it out."

"Actually." Richie changed his stance so his crotch inched closer. "I think you should decide, Jon."

Jon covertly slid back, toward the window. "How come?" He was equal parts leery and relieved by the prospect. 

Richie shrugged. "I've been kinda callin' the shots with this -- and I know you don't like that." He gave a tight smile. "So let's say it's your turn."

Jon took umbrage at the tone. Yeah, this was technically over a hair bet, but he knew damn well when Richie was being passive-aggressive. And there was no good reason for it.

Jon crossed his arms, aping Richie's posture. "Well, if it's up to me, I say we're done."

Richie kept his face stoic, but the change in his eyes came through -- a hint of hurt, Jon thought. And for an instant, it felt good. 

Alec whined. "What? But I wanna see just how stupid you can get."

Jon kept watching Richie's face as he answered. "I think you've seen our best." He folded his legs onto the seat. "I'm done. It's gettin' old."

Richie shrugged yet again -- a giveaway he was agitated. "'Kay."

They stared each other down before Richie continued. "I'll be needing my Vavoom back."

Jon huffed a laugh. "Be my guest. Let that shit give you brain cancer."

Richie smiled, again in that indecipherable way. "But I'll look good before I go."

Alec clucked his tongue. "This is truly disappointing, Jonny. Calling off a contest just 'cause you're ahead."

Jon forced a smile, again matching Richie's body language. "I think I've proven who has the bigger hair."

Richie studied him for a moment before his face softened, like a light bulb had gone off. "You haven't convinced me."

Jon felt his gut clench, whether from the words or taunting tone he didn't know. But he was pretty fucking sure the conversation was veering from hair volume.

"I think I proved myself, _very_ clearly, the other night."

Richie bit his lip, a little spark brightening his eyes. "I'm wonderin' if you can do better."

Jon gaped at him. He knew they still had an audience, but it was somehow fading to the margins of his awareness ... Because what, exactly, was being said here?

"You want _better?_ You sure about that?"

Richie grabbed the seatback as the bus hit a rumble strip, but otherwise maintained his smugness. "Just curious if you can do better." His smile widened a fraction. "Didn't say I want it."

Jon cocked an eyebrow. "Really, now? _Sounds_ like you want it."

Richie made a dismissive sound. "Makes no difference to me. You're the one backin' out. Guess you think you can't deliver."

Jon sat up, growing annoyed with the way Richie was looming over him. "Like I said, I've already proven I can _deliver._ What more do you want?"

He knew he was virtually daring Richie to give a real answer. It took another second to register exactly how stupid that was.

Richie crossed his arms again -- a defensive gesture despite the stubborn smile. "I just wanna finish what we started."

Jon froze, blinking dumbly. That could, in fact, have been a real answer. Or not. All he knew for sure was, even words like _finish_ seemed to have a subtext now. 

"OK, OK," Alec broke in. "Here's what we'll do. One more round, tomorrow tonight, winner take all." He splayed his palms in front of him. "Grand prize to be determined."

Jon let his head loll against the backrest, feeling suddenly drained of the will to fight. And anyway, as Richie said, the final prize was up to him. He'd be in control.

"Christ almighty," he grumbled. "_Fine._ If it makes you two bitches shut up."

Al whooped. "I knew you'd come to your senses." He looked at Richie pointedly. "And you -- Be a man this time and use your curling iron."

Richie wasn't paying him any mind, though. He was looking at Jon intently, like he was doubting the turnaround.

Well, fucking good. Jon liked having the upper hand, keeping his opponent guessing. He liked being the one to say yes, no, or how far. And he liked to win, fair and square.

He smiled. "Don't worry, Rich. I'll get that Vavoom back to you." 

_It was crazy. How you could get so utterly exhausted you coasted past the point of being able to sleep. It happened to him from time to time, especially on the road -- when the constant cocktail of adrenaline, substances and sex kept his nervous system dialed to ten. The unfamiliar beds, with their foreign feel and scents, didn't help, either._

_Like now. _

_Or not exactly. This wasn't unfamiliar. He'd parked himself on this bed countless times. He knew the smell on that pillowcase -- Faberge Organics and its honey and 'wheat germ oil,' of all fucking things. And even in the dark, he knew if he tilted his head to the right, he'd have a sightline to Ritchie Blackmore, Jimmy Page and Elle Macpherson._

_Elle Macpherson. If reincarnation was a thing, he prayed he'd come back as her bikini ..._

_Shit. Bad move. Don't get hard in your best friend's bed._

_Not that either one of them should give a fuck. Whatever undefined boundaries they'd had in the beginning had long since disintegrated. Once you've watched your buddy eat a chick out from five feet away, while her friend rides you --_

_Or not really _watched,_ like some kind of degenerate. It was just those sightlines. You turn your head and they find you._

_He flipped onto his side, thinking if he curled up just right he'd slip into unconsciousness. Instead he ended up staring at the slants of moonlight spanning the bedroom door. No swimsuit models there -- just a giant poster of the 'In Through the Out Door' cover art, which he'd always thought was an odd choice. Zeppelin's last album, and not even close to best. A few times, he'd meant to ask Richie about it, but the intention never stuck. Maybe he just didn't care enough, or had gotten distracted._

_But now, lying in the dark and waiting for sleep, he decided he'd finally ask -- in the morning._

_He knew he could probably go out there and ask now, because odds were Richie was still awake. The guy had the sleep pattern of an aardvark. _

_Jon snorted softly. He remembered maybe three things from high school, and one of them was that aardvarks are nocturnal. _

_Jesus Christ._

_Yeah, he could go back out there. But it seemed like a bad idea after ... whatever that scene in the living room had been. Whatever that feeling, deep and low inside of him, had been. It all seemed like something to tuck away, like it never happened._

_Yeah. Simple enough._

_He kept blinking at the door until his eyelids grew heavy and his body started to follow. So at first he thought the sounds were in his head, and maybe not sounds at all ... until they became clearer, louder ... and unmistakable as the cadence of shuffling, stumbling footsteps._

_Jon's eyes flew open, and he was staring at the same spot again. Except the moonlight had shifted, and his focus was bleary. But it was obvious the doorknob was turning, and the creak of the door was real. And he wasn't asleep or dreaming._

_He closed his eyes instinctively, like he didn't want to be caught awake at such an ungodly hour. He might've spared a thought for how stupid that was, but the thumping of his heart against his ribs was kind of distracting._

_He didn't understand it -- the way his body was reacting. It was just Richie, coming into his own room, probably forgetting he had a guest because he was so wasted. Just Richie -- maybe looking for his pipe to take one more hit before lights-out. Just Richie ... and the soft whoosh of his jeans dropping to the floor._

_Jon curled in on himself, around the pooling warmth in his middle, trying to extinguish it --_

_But the weight of the covers was lifting, making his toes curl and his mind grapple for a reason. He latched onto the nearest buoy: Richie was so far gone he still didn't register the presence of the other human -- the solid, male human -- in his bed._

_That made sense. Richie always overdid things. If something felt good, then he did it every day and twice on Sunday. That was his way -- with music, with fast cars, with substances, with sex --_

_Jon swallowed as the mattress rocked underneath him, but held his position, unmoving. He held steady as Richie sighed and the soft breath tickled the nape of his neck. As the movement and sound ceased, he held steady. Because he sensed those eyes on him._

_He'd realized long ago there was a palpable energy when someone was watching you, whether you could see it or not. And he knew Richie's eyes -- not just what they looked like, but what they felt like._

_It did occur to him that might be fucked up, to know what your best bud's gaze feels like. He wondered if Richie knew -- if he felt it every time Jon watched him. It was hard not to watch Richie, though. He drew things and people in, and Jon refused to take the blame._

_The bed jerked again, and he knew Richie had flipped onto his back. So he let himself exhale and told himself the sinking sensation in his belly was relief, not a let-down._

_A few breaths later, the mattress dipped once more. Richie had turned onto his side, to face away. And that thing he'd labeled relief settled into his body. Everything was fine -- good. They'd shared a bed a thousand times, so this was fine._

_Jon opened his eyes, and the moonlight had changed again. The poster, with the man in the white fedora, was in the shadows. But there was a warmth at his back now, and it was fine._

_The next time he saw anything, it was a jolt -- because he didn't remember closing his eyes, and sure as hell didn't remember rolling over. He hadn't made the choice to slide in, to almost pass the line to the other side. _

_Yet there he was._

_Jon pressed his lips together, holding his breath, because Richie was right there. Apparently he'd turned over at some point, too._

_He took in the outlines of Richie's face, how his lips were slightly parted. They'd been this close countless times, and there was no reason to read anything into it. No reason to be watching. But he couldn't seem to help himself, because he was convinced this was somehow different. His body told him it was different._

_He didn't realize his hand was lifting, reaching out, until it was. Then there was no stopping it, like it wasn't his own. But when his fingertips found Richie's cheekbone and traced the smooth skin there, he knew it was his own, because he felt the contact deep into his belly._

_He was sober enough to wonder if he'd ever been this drunk, but not sober enough to pull back. The soft warmth under his finger pads was too good, and maybe a part of him was just as reckless as Richie._

_He didn't even stop when he saw those eyelashes flutter, and then eyes meeting his through the moonlight. There was still a chance he was dreaming, so why not see what would happen?_

_Richie blinked rapidly a few times, but otherwise didn't move. So Jon dipped his gaze and skimmed his fingertips over the shell of Richie's ear, then along his jaw line. He wanted to trace those lips but held back, because there was a good chance this wasn't dream._

_He halted in an awkward place, the backs of his fingers against Richie's chin, his thumb just brushing the bottom line of his lip. It seemed like he could back away now and maybe it wouldn't be too weird. But then Richie's hand was encircling his wrist, and Jon was sure this was real and almost as sure he'd get slugged._

_He took a deep breath. "I ..."_

_But he had nothing to say. Neither did Richie, he supposed, because there was no reply at all._

_There was just Richie's thumb gliding along his inner wrist, mirroring his own actions. The contact, so delicate and intimate, rippled through his skin -- waking him up just enough._

_Jon yanked his hand away. "Sorry."_

_He forced a laugh as he rolled onto his back. "Sorry, I ..."_

_Richie still didn't make a sound, so Jon chuckled woodenly again. "I, uh, I guess I forgot where I am."_

_No reply, and Jon's heart started racing. "Why are you even in here?" he demanded, eyes on the black ceiling. "You -- you weren't before."_

_Finally, Richie moved, adjusting the pillow under his head. "It's OK, Jonny."_

_Jon opened his mouth, but got no further. What was OK? What did Richie think just happened?_

_"S'OK," Richie repeated. "We got confused."_

_Jon felt it again, that sinking sensation._

_"Yeah," he croaked then cleared his throat. "Sorry, man."_

_"Go back to sleep, Jonny."_

_Jon wanted to laugh at the idea. He supposed he should be grateful -- that Richie either believed his words, or was giving them both an out. But he wasn't. He was just ... a guy lying in bed with his best friend, wanting to touch him and not understanding why. Not understanding why his best friend had touched him back. It wasn't supposed to be that way. They weren't like that._

_Richie turned over, facing away from him. "Just forget it," he murmured. "You're drunk."_

_Jon kept staring upward into the dark. "Yeah."_

_The next time he saw anything, the sun was up and Richie was gone._

He had no idea what time it was, but it didn't matter. Time, and the normal routines around it, didn't apply to them anymore. When he felt like doing something, or having something, he just did. He'd learned fast that when you're a star, people let you get away with that shit.

Not everyone, of course. And if Richie had a girl in there with him, he'd be pissed. Well, fuck that. Because Jon couldn't sleep and he had some things to get off his chest.

Luckily he only had to knock three times, and maybe a little aggressively, before a muffled acknowledgement sounded. When Richie finally dragged himself to the door, he opened it wide -- making it plain he was alone.

"Um, hey, man," Richie greeted, sounding unsure.

Jon smiled. "I've got your Vavoom."


End file.
